38 Weeks
by Keryl Raist
Summary: A Grand Gestures and Day to Day Life sequel of sorts. What happens after the conspiracy is done, the bad guys are all put away, and Mike and Fi are no longer on the run.
1. Chapter 1

The first week after it was done, they mostly slept.

Not entirely. There was a lot of sex and eating too. And they did go visit Madeline a few times, but pretty much, from the minute they got home, to about nine days later, Mike and Fi barely got out of bed.

Five years without a break is wearying. And while Fi wanted some downtime, Michael desperately needed it.

So they took it.

And nothing bad happened. No one died. No massive quasi-governmental conspiracies got the drop on anyone else.

They just slept, made love, ate, and rested. And the world let them.

* * *

A/N: Romancy fluff with a side of angst and a happy ending. Might be going a little out of character, and very likely quite a bit out of cannon, but well, I need some fluff, so I'm writing it!


	2. Chapter 2

The second week, they worked a job.

Barry got in touch. He had a "friend" who ran an escort service. Lisa was well aware of the fact that in her line of work cops who want "services" in exchange for "protection" are just a cost of doing business, but beating the hell out of one of the girls crossed the line.

He had broken the girl's nose and jaw, and since she very obviously couldn't go to the cops about this, Lisa asked Barry if he knew anyone who could help.

And Barry did.

Burying a dirty cop was a whole lot of fun. Getting paid very well for it was even better. The look on Fi's face when Lisa propositioned her was so good Michael almost got hurt for laughing so hard. And, as Jesse pointed out, having friends in Lisa's line of work could make future jobs a lot easier.

It was a good week.


	3. Chapter 3

The third week, flush with cash and looking to do something nice for Fi, something she would literally never expect, Mike had lunch with Sam.

As anyone who knows him knows, Michael is not exactly the poster boy for unbounded romance. But he's also an awfully fast study. And when he puts his mind to it, he can pull off any cover. He just needs to do the research.

So, after getting two mojitos and lunch into Sam, he actually sat on one of the lounges next to him, relaxed in the sun, and said, "So, what is it you actually do for these women that they buy you cars?"

Sam sat up slowly, put his drink down carefully, turned toward Michael, and rested his hand on his forehead. "No fever. Who are you and what have you done with Mike?"

Michael swatted his hand away. "I'm serious. I want to do something nice for Fi."

"Take her to the swamps and let her play with her new guns."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Something she won't expect. Something I've never done for her before. Something"—he sighs—"romantic."

Sam smiles, cocky. "And you want help from the expert."

Mike smiles back, his game face on. "I ask Fi for help with explosives. I ask Barry for help with money. Why wouldn't I ask you for help with romance? So, what is it you do?"

Sam smiles again, smugly. "Well, brother, when you make love to a woman—"

"Romance, Sam. Not sex. I'm fine with sex."

"Uh huh... When was the last time you got a $50,000 car from a woman?"

"She went to prison for me."

Sam shrugs. "Point taken. Now take my point, for women, sex is not the same thing as making love. It doesn't begin in the bedroom and it doesn't end when you get up. It's all sex, or all romance, however you want to look at it. Trust me, I'm not about to tell you anything about what to do with your hands or tongue, I figure that's between you and Fi. But if you want to know what it is I do, it starts here. From the first time you talk to her until it ends, you're making love to her. That's where you start."

"So you're not all cheese-y come on lines?"

"Of course I'm cheese-y come on lines. I practically invented the cheese-y come on line, but if I didn't have the charm, delivery, and the ability to look at her like her answer is going to make my entire world light up, they wouldn't work.

"Okay, first lesson. Here's the one thing Fi and all of my lady friends have in common. They're high-powered girls who don't get enough attention at home. Lucky for me, my ladies want a man who knows how to take the backseat, doesn't get threatened by the fact that they make more money or spend 100 hours a week working, and will lavish attention on them when they are off. As for you...

"What does Fi want? More of your time, more of your attention. Quitting the CIA was the best present you could have ever given her, so this big deal you're contemplating is just icing on the cake..." Sam pauses and looks at Mike, eyeing him up and down. "This is just the icing on the cake, right?"

"Sam?" The question on Mike's face is clearly visible and Sam relaxes. If that veiled reference to Mike proposing blew right by him, that was just fine by Sam. Creating a nice night or weekend for Fi was one thing. Helping Mike propose to her was another all-together and required a different set of advice.

"Nothing, Mike. We're just talking about a nice night."

"Yes..." Mike looks a little disturbed. "What else would we be talking about?"

"Mikey, if you don't know yet, me spelling it out isn't gonna help."

Mike stares at Sam for a long moment and takes a drink of his iced tea. He seems willing to let this pass. Sam's not sure if he hasn't figured it out, or if he has and decided letting it lie was a good plan. Either way...

"So, icing on the cake. Time and attention. You two have been together, what, fourteen years now?"

"With eight in the middle where we never saw each other."

"Close enough. So, what she wants from you is something that takes your time, requires real effort, and shows that, at some point during those years, you've paid attention to what she likes and wants. It's not enough to come up with a candle lit dinner. Anyone can do that. Your job is to pick a date that's meaningful to her, candles with a scent she loves, flowers that have memories attached to them, the food she loves, cooked the way she loves it, music that has memories attached to it, and then you present all of that to her and spend the time sitting with her paying attention to what she's saying, hanging on her every word, acting like she is the single most important thing in the entire universe.

"Your job is to tailor a night perfectly to her tastes and then make her think that a nuclear bomb could be ticking away in the next room, but you're so into her, you just don't care."

"And this is why women buy you cars?"

"What can I say, Mike? It's a gift. The fact that I'm good with my hands and tongue and have an endless supply of little blue pills doesn't hurt, but hey, they could be dating twenty-three year olds who have rock hard abs, can get it up sixteen times a day on their own, and will follow them around like puppies. But I know how to listen. I don't need to be house-broken. I never take them for granted. And because I've lived a real life of danger and adventure, when I'm treating a woman like she's the most important thing in the world, it makes her feel good because she knows I've seen the world.

"It's not hard to impress a twenty-two year old. There's no sense of accomplishment that comes from being able to keep a baby content. But me, I've seen it all and done most of it, too. Keep me happy, and let me keep you happy, and a woman feels like she's important."

"Uh huh... Let's assume for a moment Fi isn't into me because I'm some sort of accomplishment."

Sam snorted at that.

"What?"

"Mikey, Fi loves you for a lot of reasons, but the fact that she's got _Michael Westen_, and her girlfriends have accountants and lawyers is part of it, too. Not all of it, you aren't _just_ a trophy, but make no mistake, brother, you are a trophy. She won you. Being proud of it isn't a bad thing."

Michael looks extremely disconcerted at that idea. "I'm beginning to think it's just easier to be bad at this."

"It might be. But the rewards for being good at it are pretty damn sweet." Sam looks around his perch by the pool, Elsa's staff bringing them fresh rounds of drinks when and as needed, pretty people splashing about in the tepid water. He can see the balcony of his room, overlooking not just downtown Miami, but also the ocean. He thinks about Elsa, and how happy having her in his life makes him, and yeah, being good at this is awfully sweet.

"Okay, Mike, so you've got the scene set, dinner, food, music, now let's talk presents."

"Let me guess, more effort and attention."

"Exactly. See you aren't bad at this, you've never just bothered to do it before."

"Hey, I've gotten Fi things she's liked before."

"True. You also forgot her last two birthdays." Michael looks chagrined. "And Valentine's day. And Christmas."

He smiles brightly. "I was really busy?"

"Don't tell her I said it, but Fi's a saint for putting up with you."

"I'm going to make it up to her."

"Good. What sort of present are you thinking..."

And with that Michael and Sam began to work on the particulars of a plan.


	4. Chapter 4

"My God Fi, you're looking fabulous, girl!" Barry said when they saw him on Wednesday of the fourth week. "What have you been doing to yourself? Whatever it is, I've got to start."

Fi glared at Barry. She knew exactly what he meant by fabulous. Her tits and butt were getting bigger. Fi expected a certain amount of male attention wherever she went, but the last week or so had been a lot more attention than usual.

She knew why. Her shirts, skirts, and shorts were all too snug these days.

And, while she might be looking like a sex kitten, all she really felt was sleepy. It was probably some sort of weird post-adrenaline high thing, but by now she should have been bouncing back. A few weeks of feeling tired and cruddy after the year they had made sense, but it'd been a month now.

She was starting to wonder if she had picked up some sort of parasite or weird tropical bug when they were down in Panama.

"Thank you, Barry, but we're here for something other than how I look."

"And what can I do for my favorite power couple?" Barry asks.

See, the thing about Barry is that he's not just a money launderer. He's also a very good financial manager. And well, Mike and Fi do not have run of the mill finances. Mike's been on an all-cash-all-the-time gig for the last six years, and though Fi has credit cards, they're in half a dozen fake names with the sorts of low limits no one looks twice at.

Which can make getting a place sort of tricky. Mike's had no credit history for half a decade now, and Fi's is sketchy at best, so it's not like they can just scoot over to the local bank for a mortgage. Not that they're looking to buy a place, right now.

But it's on the horizon. Because when it comes down to it, it's safer for all involved to own a place free and clear (through a few shadow corporations) than it is to rent. And it takes time to set those corporations up.

Which is why they're having lunch with Barry. It's time to talk finances and get things in order to see about looking for a real home.

* * *

They spent Thursday looking at rental places.

The corporate apartment they're in isn't bad. But it's not home.

Unfortunately, none of the places they've seen have really made either of them happy. Sure, they're temporary, the sort of place to spend a year, get everything in order, and then find a final base of operations. But, they haven't found anything they even want as a temporary base.

"Last one," Mike says, sounding deeply unenthusiastic.

"I know. It'll be different than the others."

"Maybe that'll be good."

This one is single family house. As they pull up, it reminds Mike a bit of the home he grew up in. It's not huge, but looks sturdy. There's an unattached garage, and a shed.

It's in the middle of the street, so houses on three sides. A nice high wall around those three sides, covered with some sort of thick vine, which means it'd be pretty easy to cut an emergency exit that'd be hard to see.

The landlord pulled up a moment later. He didn't appear to be much older than they were, but gave off an aura of softness. Soft face, soft hands, soft belly. Nothing about the man inspired even the least idea that he'd ever done anything even remotely difficult in his entire life. "Michael and Fiona?"

"Yes."

They shook hands. "Good to meet you. I'm Edwin Uen. Well, let's show you around."

And he did. He kept the chatter to a minimum, which both of them appreciated. It's not like they can't figure out the room with the stove, fridge, and island in the middle of it is the kitchen.

Everything looks fairly new, and is much more luxurious than Michael was expecting at this price point. Michael asks about that. Turns out the Uen had tried to flip this house, gotten it all spiffed up before the market crashed, and then put it up for sale right as values tanked. For the first six months he turned down offers for less than he had been hoping for. Then there weren't any more offers. He'd been renting it since, and having a hard time finding renters that are willing to pay what he wants.

Right now, he'll settle for just having someone in it paying something.

At this point, Michael's sure there's more to this story than Edwin is telling them, but really, he doesn't much care. Not like the place can actually be haunted, and he's more than capable of taking care of anything else that might make it unfavorable.

After all, it's not like he doesn't have experience with dealing with the drug dealers next door, or whatever else it might be.

Meanwhile, Fi's appreciating this place. There are nice things here, like closets, a dishwasher, a washer and drier, and enough space for both of them to be in the bathroom at the same time.

It's further out of downtown Miami than either of them would like, but it's not exactly the suburbs either.

Kitchen, living room, dining room, master bedroom, powder room and den are on the first floor. They're pretty generic empty spaces. The bedroom feels small, but compared to the empty space of the loft, anything with walls around it is going to feel small. There's a real bathroom, as opposed to the tiny added on shower and toilet the loft had on offer. The kitchen has a decent amount of counter space, and an island in the middle.

"Is this poured concrete?" Michael asks about the counters. If it is, that would be good. It's hard to damage concrete.

"Yes. The floor is, too." Even better.

"Michael, come look at this." Fi takes him to the back porch. There's a hot tub and minibar with built in grill overlooking a bit of backyard.

"Sam will never leave."

"I know."

"Have you kept this up?" Mike asks Uen.

"No, I've drained it and turned it off. Last I checked, the blowers worked but the heating coil was busted. If you fix it up and maintain it, I'll knock ten bucks a month off the rent."

That was a decent offer. Compared to the Charger, how hard could a hot tub be?

"Do you want to see the upstairs?"

They nod and head up. Michael can tell this was originally an attic. But it's been rebuilt into two bedrooms flanking a common bathroom.

"Do you have kids?"

"No, it's just the two of us."

"Then it's a guest room or two, or study, or storage. Whatever you want to use it for."

Mike scans the room, there's only one tiny window. Might be a good place for clients to hide out, maybe put some sound proofing on the other one, and that could be a place for holding prisoners. Though he's not sure he'd want them in his home... Oh well... there are possibilities here. Take out a bit of the wall between the bathroom and one of these bedrooms, put in some better ventilation, and this might be a good set up for DIY projects.

He checks the electrical supply. More than enough. With some remodeling, this might be a very good space.

He can see Fi thinking similar things. And on top of that, he knows she prefers keeping the work part of their life out of the living space, so having it on an entirely different floor would be a plus for her.

Michael looks at Fi, and she nods at him. "When could we move in?"

"Soon as your check clears."

"How about cash?"

"You can have the keys as soon as it's in my pocket."

* * *

On Saturday Sam said, "Mike, when you said you had a job, I didn't think it'd involve lugging stuff around," as he put a taped up cardboard box on the floor of Mike and Fi's new bedroom.

"Think of it this way, Sam, at least there isn't much to move." Which was true. Most of their stuff had gone up in flames, and what was left was living in storage units all around Miami. Sure, they'd taken some of the things out of storage to move to the new place, but it wasn't like they had furniture.

"I've moved sofas that weighed less than this," Jesse said as he put a box in the bedroom that has 'Fi' written on it. "What do you have in this, Fi?"

Fi swept in with a smaller box. "Be careful with that. There's enough ordinance in there to blow up the block."

"Oh Good. Tell me that before I carry your stuff!"

"If it's got Fi's name on it, it goes boom." Michael smiled.

"That's half the truck!"

Fi shrugs. "If the dress I want is in a storage locker half-way across town, it's not an issue. I get dressed a little later. If the gun I need is, that's a problem."

"Does your landlord have any idea what you're storing in here?" Jesse asked.

"I very much doubt it. And I really hope it stays that way." Michael answered.

"Mike, give me a hand with this. It's another of Fi's boxes." Sam calls out. They both lift the box off the back of the 4x4 they've borrowed from one of Sam's buddies. "You know, you're paying for the massage and the mojitos after this. I think I pulled my neck on the last box."

"No problem." They get the box into the house. "In fact, I think I've got something better than that. Go check out the back porch."

He hears the sliding glass door open, and then. "Oh, Mikey, I may never leave."

"Elsa'd miss you."

"She can come, too. It'd be good for her to get away from the hotel. Does it work?"

"The heater's broken, but the jets work. Won't take too much fixing to get this up and running."

"Good."

* * *

The first meal at their new home was take out. They're ten minutes from Little Havana, so it's take out Cuban.

Arroz con pollo, tostones, and cold beer eaten with friends on the porch watching the sun set was pretty sweet.

Tomorrow, they'd start getting furniture.

* * *

A/N: Wait! Keryl, what happened to the romance you were setting up last chapter? I wanted date night and Michael in action, and you gave me house shopping!

It's coming, luvvies, it's coming. (Evil laugh.) Gotta have a place for the romance before the romance begins.

In the meantime, I've got enough of this written that, at least through Jan 2013, updates will be handled regularly on Wednesdays and Saturdays.


	5. Chapter 5

By the start of the fifth week, Michael was ready to put his plan, "Romantic Date Night: Number One," into action. And like many of his plans, he hit a snag not too far into it. The thing about no longer being part of a quasi-governmental conspiracy is that he no longer has much of an excuse to head out on his own for hours at a time. And since he works and lives with Fi, he's pretty much lost the ability to just wander off for hours at a time without some sort of cover story.

And what he wants to do is going to take long enough he can't just cover it with a grocery run. Fi will get suspicious if he claims to have spent three hours getting yogurt.

But a grocery run is more than enough time to cover a call to Sam.

"Hey Sam."

"How's date night prep going?"

"Uh. Fine."

"You've already hit a problem."

He rolls his eyes at the phone. "Yes. Does Elsa's hotel have a spa?"

"Of course. Best in Miami, as you might have known first hand if you had used that gift certificate I got you." Sam can almost feel Michael shrug in response. "You do know what's involved in being a five star hotel, right?"

"I'm vaguely aware of the concept. Usually if I'm in a five star hotel, I'm not partaking of the amenities."

"Fair enough. What do you need?"

"To get Fi out of the house today. Can you get her to the hotel? I can get the spa day and some sort of card or something set up, but I want it to be a surprise."

"Can do, Mike." Sam pauses and seems to be thinking about something. "Elsa's not too busy today, no meetings. Mind if I piggy-back onto this?"

"No. Both of them together will probably take longer. More time is a good thing."

"Exactly. I'll get Fi over here in an hour. Is that long enough for you to get this part set up?"

"Should be fine. What's the name of the spa manager?"

Sam gave him the details of who to call, and Michael hung up and called The Dearabon. Talking to the spa manager let him know they were pretty well booked up all day. Mentioning that this was for Elsa and Fi took care of the booked up issue. Adding a thirty percent tip resulted in a spa manager who was willing to just about bend over backward to do whatever he wanted. So getting a bottle of good champagne with a card that said, "Thought you both deserved a day off—Michael and Sam" added to the spa day wasn't too tricky either.

Michael got back to the house forty minutes later. Fi looked like she hadn't been up for long. She was still in her bathrobe, hair wet, and eating some breakfast on the porch.

He began unloading groceries.

"What do you want to do today?" she asked as she came in, cereal bowl empty.

"Not sure. No jobs on the horizon. We could go visit my mom." They had been trying to do that more often. Maddie was healing from the emotional trauma of the last few months, but that wasn't the same thing as healed, or even close to healed. When they got back, when it was all done, she had started hosting Sunday dinner at her house, and all of them made sure to make it each week.

Trying to make a conscious effort to act like a family, and to hold their loves close.

"Sounds like a good idea. How about we hit the beach after? I feel like I've been inside too much lately," Fi said.

"We've both been sleeping a lot."

"Today we can nap in the sun."

Michael smiles. "That sounds really good. How about you get into your bikini, and then I'll put some sunblock on you."

"Might be hours before we get to the beach."

He grins, and she knows how putting sunblock on is going to end. Granted they don't have a ton of furniture, but they do have a bed, and it's awfully sturdy. Which they know, first hand, because they've been testing it, a whole lot.

"Can't be too careful in the sun. Not with your pretty Irish skin. I'll put more of it on you closer to time."

She laughs and hands him her cereal bowl. He's washing up when he hears her cell ring. "Sam...Uh huh...I had plans...Okay...Fine...This better not take too long..."

She comes out of their bedroom a minute later in shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt. "Sam called. He's having some sort of 'ladyfriend issue' that needs my immediate help." She rolls her eyes. "He should just find his wife and get that marriage taken care of. I don't know how he's going to get out of this twice. Anyway... I'm off. Back soon, I hope."

He kisses her. "Have fun."

She smiles and heads off, and Michael begins to unpack the rest of the groceries.

He's never made sushi before, but that doesn't mean he can't. He's got yellowfin tuna, Fi's favorite, edamame, a bottle of excellent sake, and a few other goodies lying in wait. And what he's not going to make, he's going to pick up from Fi's favorite sushi place.

His cell buzzes as he's watching youtube videos on sushi making, letting him know he's got a text.

_A day off?_

_Thought you'd like it._

_You did, or Sam did?_

_Believe it or not, I did. Sam's using my good idea on this one._

_:) See you tonight._

_See you._

Half an hour of youtube videos later, he feels pretty well prepared to turn the tuna into sashimi. Mostly it's a matter of knife skills and picking out good fish, both of which he's way better than average at. Sticky-rice, on the other hand, appears to be something that takes years of practice to get just right, so he's thinking that'll be something he gets to-go.

So... if she gets back around seven, that means he's got eight hours from now until he needs to have dinner ready to go. Okay, more than enough time.

Shopping time.

While it is true that Michael and Fi have enough things that burn to set fire to all of downtown Miami, they don't have a large collection of plain old candles. Half a dozen incendiaries are all hiding in different corners of their home, but white pillars made of paraffin, not so much.

They had had candles, he remembers that from the loft. But, like many things they used to have, getting new ones just hadn't happened yet.

So, he'll be getting candles. And a dress and shoes. Fi likes dresses and loves shoes. And while it is true that he has gone with her when she's shopped for them, and it's certainly true that he's paid for them, he's never actually gone out and purchased them for her by himself.

Which means he has to do some research. Namely, he needs to know what size Fi wears. He knows on an intimate and very detailed level exactly how big Fi is. He can quote you her measurements from memory. What he doesn't know is what size dress or shoes that translates into. Likewise, he knows what sorts of clothing she likes to wear and what shops she usually buys them at, but he doesn't know what brands or designers she particularly enjoys.

He supposes most people would just go to the closet and look, but most people didn't burn their home and almost everything they owned less than three months ago. Lucky for him and Fi, the loft didn't have a lot of closet space, so most of their working clothing lived in a storage unit. So, he'll be taking a detour en route to the mall to do some research.

And, once he's got the dress, shoes, and candles, there's setting the scene. Which will probably involve some pillows, a nice tablecloth or two, and minor carpentry. He's thinking that it'd be easier to get a few boards and make a low table than it'll be to actually buy a nice one and get it put together before she gets home.

He looks around their home one last time before heading out and decides chopsticks and nice plates would be a good plan, too.

* * *

Fi was annoyed. She had a perfectly good day set with Michael, and then Sam was calling with this stupid not-quite-ex-wife crap. Again. If the last time wasn't enough of a lesson to track the woman down and get a divorce, she didn't know what was.

So there was something of an irritated black cloud hovering over her, as she stalked into the hotel and found Elsa waiting for her.

Both of them looked at each other in confusion.

"Sam told me to meet him here," Fi said.

"Me, too," Elsa answered.

A few seconds later Alma, the spa manager came over with a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a note. Elsa took the note and broke into a smile, passing it to Fi. A smile and tears—Fi wasn't sure why that was happening, but suddenly she was so happy she couldn't stand it. Happiness that she couldn't hold in, that just wanted to leak out in tears, burst through her.

Alma opened the champagne and poured for both of them. "Mr. Westen and Mr. Axe have set both of you up with the gold spa day package..." She proceeded to explain what all that entailed.

Twenty minutes later, lounging about in a robe, waiting for the lomilomi massage and reflexology treatment to kick things off, Fi sent Michael a text.

* * *

Shopping was going pretty well. Apparently there are stores that sell nothing but candles. He thinks it's going to take an extra-long shower to get the smell of the place off his skin, but he was able to get a wide selection of unscented candles in various shapes.

He knows all the candles at the loft were one scent. And he also knows there is absolutely no chance of him finding that same scent again. Not in a candle store that smelled so strongly of artificial maple that he couldn't smell anything else. So unscented. No it won't trigger any memories, but he also won't have picked something she doesn't like, or takes away from how the food tastes.

He's found two tablecloths. One in a rich red color, with some sort of gold embroidery around the edges, and two large, flat pillows to match, that will go on the floor, and a smaller, plum-colored one he intends to put over the few boards he's going to turn into a low, Japanese-style table for dinner.

He skipped flowers. They've got tons of them in the house, and Japanese-style table settings usually aren't cluttered up with extra decor.

The dress didn't take all that long. He knew it was right when he saw it, clingy, white, with an asymmetric neck line draping from the left shoulder to right breast and asymmetric hemline draping from right knee to left foot.

He was hunting for shoes when he got sidetracked.

Michael isn't easy to sidetrack. When he's focused on something, he can range from completely obsessed to just laser-like pin-point accuracy. But either way, when he's on a mission, he's on the mission. And at 12:30 in the afternoon, bags in hand, he was on a mission for shoes.

He was thinking with that dress Fi would like something white, strappy, fabric, not leather, and if there were some sort of sparkly element, preferably on the ankle, not the heel or toe, that would be a good thing.

So, he was actually surprised when something sparkly caught his attention, and it wasn't a shoe.

It was as much not a shoe as something could be. It was a jewelry store.

And the sparkly thing in question was a counter full of rings. Diamond rings. Lots of them. Light gleaming and leaping from the facets of the stones in front of him. Suddenly Sam's comment about this just being a nice night makes sense to him, and he realizes what Sam was asking.

He'd be lying if he said the idea hadn't crossed his mind. From the moment he said he was done with the CIA, it had been hovering in the back of his mind. But from finally finishing Card to now, it hadn't managed to get back to the front of his mind.

Now, staring at a huge collection of rings, it's in the front of his mind.

He wanders into the store, looking at them. A memory of a conversation a bit over a year ago springs to mind, and he knows what he wants.

An eager sales associate sees him, sees the Rock & Republic jeans, the Oliver People's sunglasses, the Chase Durer's Special Forces 1000 UTD, and the labels on the bags he's holding and swoops down on him like very expensive prey.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Maybe. What do you have in asscher cut diamonds?"

The sales clerk thinks for a moment. "Asschers are very rare. Most people go for princess cut diamonds when they want a square stone."

"It's got to be an asscher."

"Let me look. Do you want just a stone, or do you want it in a setting?"

"Both."

"Rings, pendants, earrings, bracelets?"

"Rings."

The clerk smiles, pegging Mike as an engagement ring shopper, who knows what his girlfriend likes, but doesn't know what precisely he wants to get her. "Okay, let's see what I've got."

Six minutes later he returned with three unset stones, and four rings on a black velvet tray. And like with the dress, Michael knew the right one when he saw it. The stone was smallish, probably about a third of a carat, set on point, and tension mounted between what might have been white gold or maybe platinum. Then another metal band wrapped between the tension mounting, this one a dull, almost pewtery gray. The pewter and platinum bands formed an x with the diamond in the middle. It looked nothing like any of the other rings on the tray, and he liked that very much.

"That one."

"It is fine, isn't it? It's platinum and titanium engagement/wedding ring combination." The clerk picked it up, twisted it a little, and the pewtery gray part fell away from the platinum part, and then placed both halves in Michael's hand. "There's a matching men's band as well. Would you like to see it?"

"Yes."

The clerk came back with a catalogue. "I'm sorry, we don't actually have the men's band in stock. But here's what it looks like." There was no stone, which pleased Michael, because he couldn't see himself, as himself, wearing a diamond ring. Like with Fi's ring, and he realizes that's how he thinks of it in his mind, _Fi's ring_, there is a platinum band, and it comes together in the center forming an x with the titanium. It's elegant, solid looking, and not plain.

He likes it very much. "How long to get them?"

"Do you need the engagement ring sized?"

Michael picks it up, and places it between his pinky and ring finger on his right hand. The hand which holds Fiona's left. It feels awkward there, too big.

"Yes. Can I see your sizing equipment?"

"Certainly."

Mike fiddles around with the selection of ring sizes for a few minutes, trying different ones between his fingers, and then says. "She wears a size four and a half."

"Okay. It'll take four weeks to get this sized. And four to eight to get the other one made." Michael nods, no clue as to if that is very slow, very fast, or just normal. But he's not in a hurry. He's got a lifetime of tomorrows with Fi, so one month, two months, or whenever is just fine.

"Let's do it."

* * *

While lounging about, waiting for her highlights to finish processing, Fi found another text on her phone.

_Surprise waiting for you up at Sam's. Come home around seven, and there'll be a surprise there, too._

She sent one back. _Looking forward to it. Do I need to bring or have anything special?_

_Everything you'll need will be at Sam's._

Fi and Elsa head up hours later and find Sam, happily grinning away. He kisses Elsa, tells her how beautiful she is, and lays down the patented Axe charm.

Then he turns to Fi. "There are goodies from Mike waiting for you in the guest room."

Fi gives him a look that's clearly curious, and he grins again.

She heads in and before anything else about the guest room hit her, she sees the shoes. They're sitting on top of the shoe box on the bed. White, satin, strappy heels with a sparkly little clasp call out to her. They're beautiful and delicate, and she checks to see, the right size.

She had no idea Michael even knew what shoe size she wore. Let alone that he had noticed that she prefers a four inch heel.

She kicks off her sandals and tries them on. They fit. They fit really well, no pinching, no rubbing against her heel annoyingly.

After she stops cooing over the shoes—And she is cooing, which she finds mildly disturbing. They're great shoes and all, but still, this is like reading the card, she's feeling a bit too emotional for the circumstances.—Anyway, after she finishes cooing over the shoes, she sees a dress bag hanging in the otherwise empty closet, her makeup bag on the dresser in front of a mirror, and a note.

_Fancy dinner one of the thousand I owe you. —Michael._

She opens the dress bag and feels a breath escape with a slight whistle. It's gorgeous.

Then she looks around some more. She checks the makeup bag. She checks the shoe box.

Michael apparently has an interesting idea of what "Everything you need" means. For example, there's no underwear, but there are stockings, though she almost never wears them. All of her eye shadows, mascara, and eyeliners are in the bag, but no foundation or lipstick. His favorite of her perfumes is in there, as well as all of her hair stuff.

She'd think it was just a matter of him not knowing what it is she does when she makes herself up, but he's even got her eyelash curler in there, as well as the smoothing serum she uses on her hair.

While she's getting her hair ready, it occurs to her why what's missing is missing. He likes to touch her skin, and doesn't like make-up rubbing off on him, so no foundation or lipstick. Thigh high stockings, which he does like her in, but no panties or bra.

So, dinner and sex. Serious sex looking at this set up.

She smiles.

Michael may indeed be bad at relationships, but he's good at sex. Ridiculously good at sex. And, as she fixes up her hair and thinks about what ridiculously good at sex means, a warm and happy glow suffuses her skin.

She finishes her abbreviated make-up, puts on the perfume, and slips into the dress. She can't quite reach the clasp at the top of the zipper.

"Elsa?" she calls out.

Elsa shows up a minute later. "Oh. He has good taste."

Fi smiles. "Yes he does. I can't get the clasp. Could you give me a hand?"

"Sure." Elsa steps behind her and slips the hook into the eye.

Fi drops her hair over her shoulder and looks at it. "I don't know where he found this. I usually have to have dresses taken in on top, but this one is perfect." Actually, it was even a bit snug, which was a first. She'd never found a dress off the rack that fit the bottom half of her and was snug on top.

"Sam tells me he's been planning this for more than a week. Maybe he got it taken in?"

"More than a week?"

"Yeah."

That stops Fi in her tracks, one earing in, one in her hand. "Really?"

"Really. He asked Sam for help on setting up a romantic night. He wanted to do it up right for you."

"One out of a thousand indeed."

Elsa looks confused, and Fi shakes her head, tears in her eyes.

"Are you all right?" Elsa asks.

"Yeah." Fi blots her eyes carefully, not wanting to smear her makeup. "I've just been really off today. Just happy." She gets herself back under control, and then steps into the shoes.

Elsa looks her up and down. "I'll say this for him, when he puts his mind to it, that man can really shop. I'm impressed. He might be a natural at this romance thing."

"That he might."

She steps out of the room with Elsa and Sam sees them. He whistles at Fi and nods. "Mikey's done good."

"I understand you helped with this."

"Not with this part of it. That was all him. I just gave pointers on what he was supposed to be doing."

Fi kisses Sam's cheek and he almost jerks back he's so surprised. "Thanks Sam."

"You're welcome, Fi."

"I've got to get going if I'm going to be there by seven."

"Then off with you."

* * *

Fi headed out, and Elsa looked at Sam. Her expression was expectant and Sam began to feel uncomfortable.

"Elsa?"

"She's pregnant."

"What? Wait! Did she just tell you that?" Jeeze one day of girliness and Fi's saying things like that to Elsa. They have got to get her some girlfriends.

"No. I don't think she knows. But she was telling me about how her clothing is fitting differently, and how she's feeling extra emotional, and you've mentioned that she and Mike are napping a lot."

Sam relaxes a little when he hears that. Speculation is one thing, a good thing, because he's having a hell of a time wrapping his head around that idea. Then he realizes he's just standing there and thinks about the last thing Elsa said. "Because they're _tired_. You know, spending five years fighting a quasi-governmental conspiracy will take it out of you."

Elsa nods. "Uh huh. She's pregnant. Take if from someone who's been there; they've got a baby on the way."

"Can't be."

"Does Fi normally cry when Mike does something nice for her?"

"She was crying?"

"Little bit."

"Huh." Sam backs up to the sofa and sits down hard. Elsa gets him a drink.

"You're gonna be Uncle Sam."

"No..." he's shaking his head and takes a sip of the beer.

"Come on, it'll be fun. It's about time one of your buddies had kids."

"Mike and Fi are so not kid people."

"They'll figure it out. Kids aren't that complicated."

"You really think she's pregnant?"

"Yeah. I bet if you ask Maddie, she'll say the same thing. Nothing gets by that woman."

Sam took a very long drink of his beer. Things were about to get very interesting.

* * *

Jeans and T-shirt or suit and button down... Michael stands in front of the closet, towel wrapped around his hips, water dripping off his hair and down his chest, and debates what to wear.

When he's off duty, just being himself, he usually wears jeans and a T-shirt. Of course, he's not exactly off tonight, and he does know what Fi is wearing is very much not jeans and a T-shirt.

The problem with a suit is that he's never comfortable in a suit with bare feet. They're eating Japanese-style, on the floor, low table, no shoes. There's just something that seems wrong about that to him. Sure he has done it, and probably will again, but still, he's not in a fancy restaurant, he's home.

Where he could wear jeans, and jeans and no shoes is just fine for him.

Jeans and a button down? Maybe... He pulls on his boxers and thinks about that while lighting the candles. All of the prep work for the food is done. Between what he's made and bought they've got enough sushi for three people, if two of those people are Sam and Jesse, who aren't exactly shy about digging in when the food is good. The table is set. One of the good things about a completely empty dining room is that it takes very little effort to set up a romantic dinner.

He's got a playlist set on his computer. He turns it on, and hopes Fi likes it. They don't really have much in the way of songs with some history. He's got what was playing the first time they danced, but for most of their lives the soundtrack has been explosions and gunfire, not ballads. So, with the exception of Can't Help Falling In Love, the rest of the music is soft jazz. Nice to listen to, but easy to ignore as well.

It didn't occur to him how long it would take to light all the candles. He'd gotten thirty of them, which seemed like enough to provide a golden romantic atmosphere when he was shopping, but is looking more and more like a massive fire hazard as he lights them.

For a moment, he ponders Fi showing up early, while he's doing this, and how she would react if he was just in his boxers. She's certainly welcomed him home in nothing but a teddy before. And he's always appreciated that.

But... if they're actually going to eat the food he's spent hours working on (or picking up) dressed is probably a good idea.

Plus, he's somewhat suspicious that him lying on their bed in his underwear in a come-hither pose does not have precisely the same effect on Fi as it does when she does it for him. Michael's fairly certain she'd giggle.

His phone rings, and Sam's on the line. "She left five minutes ago. Should be at your place in ten."

"Thanks, Sam."

"Everything set?"

"Almost."

"Okay. Be real nice to her."

"I intend to."

"Good. I think she's liking this. She actually kissed me on the cheek when she left."

"Huh." That surprises Mike.

"Mike..."

"Yeah?"

"Seriously, be real nice to her. I'd hate to see this much build up to have it go wrong."

"I think I've got this, Sam."

"Good."

Another pause. Mike feels like Sam's trying to say something to him, but has no idea what it might be. Okay, yes, he's got a bad reputation when it comes to this sort of thing, but it's not like he's never been on a date before. He can probably manage to pull off dinner without messing it up too badly. Still a little last minute advice might not be unwarranted...

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Jeans or suit?"

Sam seems to think about that for a moment. "Mike, this is why I always wear the same thing."

"Great."

"Jeans."

"Thanks, Sam."

"Mike, go easy on the wine."

"Sam?" Okay, that was completely out of nowhere.

"It's has anesthetic properties. Dulls her sense of touch. One of my tricks is to make sure to go easy on the wine for her, no more than two glasses, that way she's relaxed but can feel what I'm doing better. And I drink a bit more of it, so I last longer."

"That's way, way more information than I ever needed."

"If you want her so happy she's buying you cars..."

"Yeah, gotta go." Mike hangs up thinking that was one of the most surreal conversations he's ever had with Sam.

* * *

Fi is beautiful. This is one of the non-negotiable facts of Michael Westen's life. In fact, it might be the only non-negotiable fact of his life. No matter who he or she's pretending to be, Fi's his ideal of beauty. Dark hair, light hair, make-up, hair that took an hour to do, and designer clothing, no make-up and covered in sweat and grime, no matter what, Fi is beautiful.

But sometimes Fi is also pretty. And tonight, she's so pretty, so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at her.

Michael might not be very good at this romance stuff, but he's not stupid either, so there are certain things he will never admit, like that fact that he does always think she's beautiful does not in any way negate the fact that he prefers her hair and eyebrows honey brown, her hair down, and her in dresses.

When she left this morning, she was his hawk, dark, sharp, dangerous and beautiful. She's returned a butterfly, light and delicate, soft waves of honey colored hair cascading down her naked shoulder and arm.

He's thinking about that, about how the golden candle light caresses her skin, how her hair rests on her neck and shoulder, the fact that the dress is sheer enough he can see the shadow of her nipple, the shape of her mouth and lips as she nibbles on an edamame. She's talking about her day, and he's certainly watching her attentively, and hearing her voice, enjoying the way it sounds, but he's not really paying attention to what she's saying.

"Michael, are you listening to me?"

He puts his glass down, and moves to sit next to her on her pillow. His fingers brush her face, stroke through her hair, and trail down her naked shoulder and arm.

"No. I'm sitting here, looking at you," he touches her face again, thumb tracing over her bottom lip, "thinking about how beautiful you are, and how much I love you. I'm thinking about how happy you make me, and hoping I make you happy, too."

"In that case, you can be forgiven for not listening to me."

"Do I make you happy, Fi?"

She kisses him, soft and slow. "Yes."

* * *

A/N: Okay, so if you want to head to the blog version of this, charactersaremyheroin dot blogspot dot com /2012/11/38-weeks-fifth-week_ you can see an on point asscher cut diamond engagement ring, sure it's not precisely what I had in my mind when I came up with Fi's ring, but until my 3d modeling skills get a lot better, what I come up with in my head isn't going to be on a page.


	6. Chapter 6

During the sixth week, after Mike and Fi had gone home from Sunday dinner at Maddie's house early—both of them claiming to be tired—Madeline looked at Sam and Jesse and said, "So, is she pregnant and they aren't saying anything, or do they really not know, yet?"

Sam laughed. Elsa was right. "Maddie, did you hear any screaming coming from their home lately?"

"No."

"Blue Screen of Death face on Mike?"

"What?" Madeline didn't get the reference, and Jesse was looking at Sam like he can't believe Sam knew what it meant.

"I do read, you know," Sam says to Jesse before explaining to Maddie, "You know, when he gets that look that tells you his brain has entirely shut down and he's just standing there trying to get it started again?"

"Nope." Madeline said. Michael and Fi were acting, well, awfully normal. And not just normal for them, but normal for almost anyone.

Sam grinned. "Clueless."

"You really think Fi's..." Jesse said, looking a little clueless himself.

Sam shrugged. "Elsa was telling me that Fi was saying the dress Michael got her fit really well. Usually things that fit the rest of her are too loose on top."

"Well, okay, yeah, I noticed that, too."

Madeline arched an eyebrow at Jesse and lit up. She had stopped smoking when Fi was around two weeks ago and was majorly jonesing for a cig. "You noticed how a present Michael got Fi fit?"

"Umm. No. Just that..." Jesse blushed scarlet and looked like he wanted to run away.

"You noticed Fi's a bit curvier now-a-days?" Madeline asked.

"No disrespect to her or Mike, but yes, and well, yes. It's kind of hard to miss."

* * *

"Do you think we're sleeping too much?" Fi asked as they got ready for bed, at nine o'clock.

"Nah." They were still sleeping a lot. Michael was starting to feel more or less human again, but he was still averaging a good ten to twelve hours a night. And he was figuring that wasn't likely to change for at least a month or two more.

Fi was sleeping right next to him, and getting the occasional afternoon nap as well.

He wasn't worried about it. They aren't kids anymore, and they don't bounce back as quickly as they did back in their thirties, let alone twenties.

And, lots of sleep aside, Michael felt like he could get used to this new schedule. Sleep in, exercise, make breakfast, eat, work on the house a bit, work on whatever the job is a bit, meander down to Carlito's for lunch, eat some more, meet up with Sam and or Jesse, see his mom maybe or go to the beach, work some more, nap, get or make dinner, have sex, and sleep some more.

Quiet decompressing was a good thing. Something they both needed and deserved after the last five years.

The downside of all the eating and sleeping was they were both getting a little plump.

The next morning, Michael was working with the punching bag, hitting, kicking, body blocking, while Fi went through her yoga moves.

"It's probably time we do better about eating," she said, shifting into down facing dog, looking at him from under a spill of hair.

He looked at his stomach and reminded himself to do an extra fifty sit ups. He's sure he's never going to look like Sam, but he doesn't want to end up pudgy, either. Yeah, he's not twenty-five anymore or, for that matter, forty-five, but that's no excuse to go soft. "Probably not a bad idea." He could see her looking at her own body.

"I'm getting fat."

"Like hell you are." So, yeah, Fi had gained a little weight. But first off she was at least ten pounds under weight to begin with. And second of all, as he stared at her, in a tank top, no bra, and a pair of cut off sweat pants, from everything he could see every ounce she had gained was in exactly the right places.

Twenty-four year olds with big, fake tits might bore Michael to tears. However, a forty-three year old with nicely plump real ones appealed to him very, very much.

Which he proceeded to show her, with extreme attention to detail, instead of doing those fifty extra sit-ups.

* * *

On Wednesday Sam called with a job.

Evan, Elsa's son, was trying to help a friend, and it turned out he just didn't know what to do or how to help. The friend, Jaime, got in some bad trouble with some worse people, and Evan tried to pull his own Sam Axe gig to get the friend free.

It failed miserably.

So he went to Sam, who he figured would be pretty good at pulling a Sam Axe. And Sam, sitting there, listening to Evan, knew that this was a more than one, or two for that matter, man job. So he called in Mike and Fi.

That job took three days, because while dealing with a collection of rave-running, designer-drug-selling party kids with guns was beyond Evan, it wasn't beyond Fi, Mike, and Sam.

And then they ran into a snag. They needed at least two people to go in, and well... Okay, Mike's forty-six, and Sam is fifty-eight. And while a beautiful woman is welcome more or less anywhere, Mike and Sam are going to stick out at a rave like... well, like a rave kid at a black-tie charity auction. So, Jesse got called in, and he was more than willing to help.

Fi liked it because she got to dress up, go to fun clubs, and make about two hundred teeny-boppers fall in love with her.

Jesse liked it because he actually does enjoy raves, though it's not anything he's ever going to mention to the other three.

Sam enjoyed it because he made Elsa very happy. He was also pleased to see Evan try to do the right thing. Sure, he didn't know how to do the right thing, but trying was a good first start. He even spent a few minutes talking to Evan about how, since he seemed to be interested in blowing things up, doing things with his hands, and helping people, he might want to try the military. And shock of shocks, Evan didn't completely blow him off.

And Michael enjoyed it because all of his favorite people had a good time, no one got hurt, it paid well, and all he had to do was plan while putting furniture together with Sam.

It was a good week.


	7. Chapter 7

The seventh week Fi wasn't feeling well. At all.

Sunday, when she laid around in bed all day and threw up six times, Michael thought it was just a tummy bug. He made sure she got plenty of rest and good supply of chicken broth and tea. He was somewhat surprised to hear his mom sound smugly amused when he called to say they wouldn't be over for dinner, that Fi had a stomach flu, but, well, his buddies had been acting a little off for a week or so now. Like there was some big joke they were all waiting for him to notice.

Monday, when she still wasn't keeping anything down, he started to get worried.

Tuesday, her skin was light gray, puckered looking, and he was very worried.

"Fi, stick out your tongue."

She did. He touched his finger lightly to it, and it was sticky and dry. He picked her up, protesting weakly, and took her to the emergency room.

The doctor who saw them was polite, competent, listened to his concerns about dehydration and possible tropical parasites, and began with a basic medical history.

"And when was the first day of your last period, Ms. Glenanne?"

"I don't know. Sometime in 2009. I'm on Depo-Provera and don't menstruate as a result."

"Okay." The doc nodded as she made a note of that. "And when was your last shot?"

When she asked that, Fi's expression changed, she looked even paler, and Michael felt the floor tremble, like it was just about to be yanked out from under him.

"Beginning of October."

"Okay." The doctor didn't look up as she wrote that down. But Mike did a quick bit of math and came up with twenty-six weeks. Depo lasts for twelve. "You've been unable to keep anything down for three days, but you've had no fever?"

"Yes."

"Uh huh..."

"Any chance of food poisoning?"

Michael shook his head. "I'd be sick with it, too."

"About your recent stint abroad, you've been back for how long now?"

"Three months, almost four."

"Okay." Mike's thinking parasitic infections usually make themselves known quite a bit before that. And once again, he should be sick, too.

The doctor palpated Fi's neck, armpits, groin, and then stomach. "None of your glands are swollen. Diarrhea to go along with the vomiting?"

"No."

"You've been tired a lot lately?"

"Yes."

"I have been, too," Michael said. He can see where this is going and is starting to desperately hope this is some sort of bizarre environmental poisoning that was hitting Fi harder because she was a lot smaller. "We've moved into a new place recently. Could it be some sort of reaction to the new house?"

The doctor stared at him for a second, and then grinned. "You're not throwing up, are you?"

"No."

"Wheezing, coughing, rash, or hives? Those are common reactions when you're dealing with an allergic reaction to something in a new place."

"No."

"And let me guess, you're also not using any sort of non-Depo-Provera birth control." The grin got even wider.

"No," Fi said in a tiny voice.

"Okay, Ms. Glenanne, the most immediate issue is you are dehydrated. I'm going to set you up with intravenous fluids. I'm also going to give you a prescription for some anti-nausea medication. That way when you get home you'll be able to keep additional fluids in your body. Do you think you can pee?"

"No."

"Not a problem. Once we get some fluids into you, that'll take care of that. But before you leave, we'll do a pregnancy test. Now, when you go home, I want you to rest. The anti-nausea meds work pretty well, but just because you'll start feeling like you want to eat does not mean you should wolf down everything in sight on the first day. Today and tomorrow stick to light, easy foods. Broth, rice, Gatorade, Jello, toast, tea. Build yourself back up over a day or so before you start back on real solids."

"Okay."

"Good. It's a bit premature, without doing the test yet, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, in a case like this, the issue is pregnancy. So, I'll round up some information for you two about that. It says here you're forty-three?"

Fi nodded numbly.

"You're going to want to see an OB as soon as you can. Even though you appear generally healthy, forty-three puts you in the high-risk pregnancy camp."

"And, if I am pregnant, would this" Fi gestures to indicate being sick, "hurt the baby?"

"Probably not. This early on the baby is getting more than enough nutrition from you. But, that doesn't mean getting this dehydrated is a good idea for you. Any more questions?"

Neither of them said anything.

"Okay. A nurse will be in in a few minutes with the IV, the meds, and some pamphlets about pregnancy and all of your options. Congratulations!"

Michael managed to whisper "Thank you" as she left. Then they sat there, Fi in the ridiculous little paper gown, and him, one hip on the hospital bed, one leg supporting him, both of them too shocked to speak.

* * *

Sam, Madeline, Jesse, and Elsa had a pool going for what day Mike and Fi would figure out they were expecting.

Four more minutes and Sam would have won.

Michael knocked on the door to Sam's place, holding a bag from the nearest drug store. Sam can see Gatorade, some sort of prescription bottle, and pre-natal vitamins through the nearly translucent plastic.

"Mike?" Sam isn't sure if congratulations are in order or not. Michael is definitely in Blue Screen of Death mode. He has a thousand yard stare going, and barely seems to have noticed the door has opened.

He blinks, shudders, and says to Sam, "Can I borrow your bathroom?"

This was so far outside of what Sam was expecting, he's starting to get worried. "Ummm... sure. Mikey, you okay?"

"Just need to be alone for a little bit."

"All right."

Sam points toward the bathroom; Mike put down the bag, and heads to it.

The first thing Sam hears is the faint squeak the towel rack makes when you whip a towel off of it too fast. Next comes the sound of the ventilation fan. After that, the water turns on full blast.

For a moment, that was all he heard, and he figures that if Mike needs to have a good cry somewhere private, or whatever the less girly sounding version of that is, that's fine. The not nearly muffled enough scream a few seconds later gets Sam moving.

He doesn't bother to knock.

Michael's sitting, back against the wall, towel shoved into his mouth, full-out screaming. For a second, Sam really wished Madeline was here, because Mike needs a hug more than anything else.

No, what Mike really needs is a father. A best friend will have to do.

Mike picked his place because he can't stand to let his ladies see him like this. He's got to be strong for them. But no matter how strong you are, a full on freak out can happen, and it makes a lot more sense to let it happen, get it over with, and then regroup and go on, than to try and pretend it isn't happening.

Sam shuts the door, turns off the shower, sits next to Mike, his knees popping as he eases down. He takes the towel away, and puts an arm around Mike. He doesn't say anything, just lets Mike cry and hopes that this is a freak out, and not news that there's something seriously wrong with Fi.

He's known Michael for over twenty years now, and never before has he seen Mike this broken looking. From what Jesse said, this is what Mike was like on the flight back to Miami after Nate died. Once again the fear that something might be really wrong with Fi hits, and Sam wishes he had spent a few seconds snooping in that bag to see what the prescription was.

A few more moments pass, and Michael seems to calm down some. Finally he says to Sam, "We can't be parents. Who in their right mind would leave either of us alone with an infant for more than ten minutes at a time?"

Sam sighs and relaxes. All things considered, this is good news. "You'll be fine, Mike. Both of you. You're fast learners. Babies really aren't all that complicated."

"It'll be a target. Between the two of us we've got a medium-sized city's phone book worth of enemies."

That unfortunately is both true and a much more real concern than being bad parents.

"And we're both over forty which means not only are the risks of some sort of serious birth defect high, but it's also really not good for Fi to be pregnant at her age. When they gave her the anti-nausea meds, she fell asleep, and I read all the 'helpful' information they gave me about high-risk pregnancies. Which is apparently designed to torture new dads because it tells you about all sorts of terrible things that can happen, but doesn't tell you about how likely any of them are.

"We don't know how far along she is. More than four weeks, less than twelve, but she's been drinking, at least a glass of wine a night, every night. And God alone knows how many hours of smoke Fi inhaled from my mom."

Sam considers it a good sign that Michael appears to be concerned about the baby as well as Fi. "Your mom quit smoking around Fi three weeks ago, Mike. And a glass of wine a night is unlikely to cause any problems. Everyone drank and smoked pretty much all the time my mom was pregnant with me, and yours with you, and most everyone got through just fine."

"Fi isn't most everyone."

"I know, brother, I know."

"There's nothing I can do about this. I can't fight it. I can't outsmart it. I can't fix it."

Sam tries to pick his words carefully here, not sure if this is a welcome idea or not. "You might be able to... fix it."

Michael shakes his head. "I can't bring that up unless she does. And she's Catholic enough I don't think she's going to bring it up." He stares at the bathroom cabinets for a long minute. "My mom stopped smoking three weeks ago?"

"Yeah, Mike."

"So, you all knew?"

"Kind of hard to miss, especially if you live with a woman who's been pregnant. Elsa noticed when Fi started talking about how her clothing was fitting differently. Your mom caught the same thing. Apparently there's only one reason why a woman suddenly adds a cup or two to her bra size without surgery, and that's baby on board."

Michael makes some sort of sound that could be assent, or could just be him letting Sam know he's listening.

"Mike, do you want her to terminate the baby?"

Mike's head falls back against the bathroom wall, and he half-gulps half-sniffles, and Sam swears to himself he'll never tell a soul about this. "I can't allow myself to want anything else, or it will break my heart.

"We'd have to leave. At least as long as she was pregnant. She'd be too tempting a target, soft and slow and clumsy. If we gave up the baby, we could come back after, but..." Mike doesn't have to say how hard it would be, for both of them, to go through nine... six?... however many months are left of their baby growing inside Fi just to give it away. Even if that is the safest option for everyone involved. "And if we didn't, we'd be on the run forever to keep it safe. Half of the guys on the NOC list got 15 years or less. And there's no reason someone on the other half won't escape and come after us. We'd never be in one city for more than a year or two. New names, new jobs, that's one thing for adults, but for a kid."

"Mike, I think you're taking this a little too far. Most of the real psychos that hate you or Fi are dead. A lot of the others are unlikely to want to see what you'd do if they kidnapped your kid. What happened to Anson and Card was an awfully good 'Don't mess with my family' warning to everyone else who might come up against you."

"Would you want to take that risk with your child?"

Sam shakes his head, sadly.

"We keep the baby, and we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. We say good-bye to everyone we love. We give it up, and we go into hiding for the next... however long, and we have to say good-bye to it. It never gets to know us. My mom loses her second grandchild in a year." He sees the question on Sam's face. "Ruth's changed her phone number. She's made it pretty clear she doesn't want anyone with the name of Westen involved with her or Charlie."

"Sorry Mike."

"Not being an uncle to a child I've barely even seen isn't too hard. Mostly, I feel sorry for my mom. Not being a father to my own child is..." He stops talking, tries not to cry, and fails miserably.

"You want this child, don't you?"

"Yes." Michael pauses, staring at nothing. "I'm not father material, and I've never felt a desire for kids. But I was half-sitting on her hospital bed, watching her sleep, reading those evil pamphlets, feeling how... It's the worst feeling in the world. All of this danger, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. And at first it was all about the risk to Fi. This could kill her or cripple her. But I kept reading, and they've got pages and pages of things that could be wrong with the baby as well, and I realized it wasn't just Fi I was scared for. And when that hit, the entire rest of our life and the massive fucking disaster it's become hit with it as well.

"Look, I'm not oblivious, and neither is Fi. Willfully ignorant, probably. You think I didn't notice she'd gained two cup sizes, was sleeping all the time, or missed her appointment for her shot? Or that this managed to happen at exactly the right time, when the danger was gone and life could finally go on? The only way this was ever going to happen was as an accident. And so, oops.

"I knew; I just didn't want to.

"But I don't think it matters that I want it. Or that she probably does, too. Any child of ours would be better off raised by other people. People who don't have to hope that _most_ of the psychopaths they've pissed off have been scared away."

"Mike, you've been able to do anything you've been willing to work for. This is just another challenge. If you want it, life with your child, here, near the people you love, you can get it."

"How?"

"One step at a time, brother. First step, go home, tell Fi you love her, and find out what she wants to do. And remember, you aren't alone. There's at least three, and really a whole lot more, sets of eyes watching your, and any child you may have's, back. And I want you to remember something else when you're thinking about going into hiding, here, we've all got your back. Somewhere else, you're own your own."

Michael stood up slowly and gave Sam a hand up as well. "You're a good friend, Sam."

"Damn skippy. Now, off with you."

* * *

Michael crept into their bedroom, quietly easing the door shut, hoping not to wake Fi.

She rolled over and watched him come in. So much for that plan. He's not sure if he woke her, or if she was already awake when he came in. She was sleeping when he left. Once the anti-nausea meds kicked in and she wasn't throwing up, the pregnancy tiredness took over and knocked her out.

He put down the bag and sat on the side of the bed.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I was half-dozing, half-awake."

"Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Tired, thirsty, and terribly stupid."

Michael shrugs, grabs one of the Gatorades, opens it, and hands it to her as she sits up, and then says, "Not like you got pregnant on your own."

"It's also not like you're in charge of the birth control. You should be able to rely on me to do the job and do it right."

"Fi, I know what sort of birth control we use. I know you've got to go to the doctor at least once a season for it. We talked about this when you got out of prison. I knew how it worked well enough to ask about it then. You told me when your next appointment was. And we both forgot. It's not like we weren't busy at the time."

"We've been awfully not busy recently."

"True. Still, I don't want you thinking this is all your fault. There's plenty of stupid to go around here, and half of it is mine."

She sips the Gatorade and winces a little. "Don't like this flavor."

"I've got blue, red, purple, green, and orange, too."

"You know there's something very wrong about a drink when you can identify the color easier than the flavor."

"How about the orange stuff? It's probably orange flavored."

She nods. He fishes it out of the bag, opens the new one, and hands it to her. "I got the anti-nausea meds and the vitamins. Do you want them?"

"I've got a few more hours before the stuff I'm on wears off."

"Okay."

She drinks more of the Gatorade. "This one is better."

"Good."

He lies on the bed next to her, looking at the ceiling. He's spent hours, full nights, doing this, but in the past what he's been pondering has been a lot more dangerous, and a whole lot easier for him to control.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"What if I didn't forget?"

He rolls onto her side to face her. He couldn't put a name to the emotion running through him right now even with a week's worth of time and a thesaurus.

"Fiona?"

He doesn't like the way his voice sounds as he says that, and he's guessing his face looks pretty off as well.

She shakes her head. "No, I don't mean skipped the shot on purpose. I wouldn't do that, not to you, not to anyone. Just... I don't know... It's not the sort of thing I'd forget. I've been having sex since I was fifteen. I've never even had a close call before. Not when I was a girl with stars in my eyes and hormones running like crazy. Not in Ireland where birth control wasn't easy to get ahold of, and I was in the middle of a war zone. Not when I've never known where I was going to be or when or who I was going to be with, never. No matter how illegal it was to have it, I always had something and used it to make sure this didn't happen."

Michael smiles a little at her and says, "Willful ignorance. I said that to Sam less than half an hour ago."

"You went to see Sam?"

"You were asleep when I left. I needed some alone time, and didn't want to risk waking you up."

"What were you doing that you were afraid might wake me up?"

"I'd really rather not say."

She looks at him carefully, noticing the redness in his eyes and the slight puffiness to his eyelids, and realizes they aren't from lack of sleep.

"So, Sam knows?"

"Yeah. And apparently my mom, Jesse, and Elsa, and possibly all of Miami. Somehow we ended up being the last to know about this, which is where willful ignorance came in."

She nods and drinks more. "Are you angry?"

"No. You?"

"A little. At myself."

A long quiet moment passes before Fi asks, "So, if you aren't angry, what are you feeling about this?"

"Scared and sad." He kisses her forehead. "I love you."

"I know. What do you want to do?"

"Be someone else. Someone who could celebrate having a child with a woman he loves. Someone who's not worried about evil sociopaths using you or the child for revenge or leverage. How about you?"

"I want to keep the baby and build a home and life with you. But I know we can't. It would be safer with someone else."

Another long quiet moment passes.

"I'm sorry, Michael."

"For what?"

"For putting you, us, through this. If it was just up to you, you'd handle this differently, I'd think."

He shrugs again. "It's not just up to me."

* * *

Hmmm... looks like I wasn't kidding about the angsty stuff. Oh well, more fluffiness eventually. Gotta get through the sad bits to have the happy, right? For those of you who are following Grand Gestures, no update tomorrow, the last eppy didn't have any bits that needed me to expand on them, so gotta wait until Friday to see the next one and see if the muse hits. Hopefully it will and there will be a chapter 26 for Grand Gestures soon.


	8. Chapter 8

Eighth week:

First thing Monday morning, Michael and Fi were at her gynecologists. They re-did the pregnancy test, and once again it came up positive.

"So, there's no chance this might be something else?" Fi asked her doctor.

"We'll do an ultrasound, just to make absolutely sure and see how far along you are, but the chance that it's something else is awfully small."

"When can we make the appointment for the ultrasound?" Michael asked.

"It's part of the first pregnancy consultation. We've got one here, and when we get done with this, you'll head three doors down, and Sarah, our ultrasound tech, will check everything out."

What followed was a very long, very detailed, and very nerve wracking medical history. By the time they were done, they had even more pamphlets about high risk pregnancies, the name of an OB who specialized in high risk pregnancies, and actual statistics to go with all of the potential ways a pregnancy could go wrong.

Michael didn't find having the stats particularly comforting. He especially didn't find the stats on trisomies (due to Fi being over forty) or Autism and schizophrenia (due to him being over forty) even remotely comforting.

He was sitting on a hard plastic chair, filling out yet more paperwork, while Fi vanished behind a curtain and got changed into yet another of those patient gowns. Apparently he was looking like grim death, probably glaring at the paperwork, when Sarah came in.

She shook her head, took the information from him, and tutted. "They gave you the high-risk-pregnancy, here's-everything-that-can-go-wrong, information, didn't they?"

He may have grunted by way of response. It's possible he said yes. He wasn't really paying attention.

"You have to remember, less than three percent of babies are born with a birth-defect. Sure, you're high risk, but high risk is still awfully low." He had a sense that there was a hole in the logic there, but it was the first really comforting statistic that he'd run into today, so he held onto it. "Come here. You see this?" She showed him the screen for the ultra-sound.

"Yes."

"Once your wife gets changed, you'll get to see your baby there. Have you ever done this before?"

"No."

"Seen an ultrasound of a baby?"

"Yes."

"Not like this, you haven't. We've got the latest imaging technology here. If she's far enough along, we'll be able to see your baby's fingernails."

"Really?" His interest perked up at that idea.

"Really. You won't just hear the heartbeat, you'll be able to see the blood moving through the heart, all four ventricles, brain, spine, kidneys, you name it, and as long as it's there, we can see it." He smiled at that. "And, one thing to remember, when they give you those horrible here's-everything-that-could-possibly-go-wrong speech, we can fix so much more these days than we ever could before. They can actually do surgery now on the baby, before it's born."

Fi came around the screen, and Sarah walked over and introduced herself. She explained what she was going to do and why she was going to do it, how everything was going to work, and how, in half an hour or so, they'd have baby pics to show their friends.

It was certainly bizarre to be standing next to Fi, knowing what the lab tech was doing to her. Michael was trying not to think about that. Fi squeezed his hand, and he squeezed hers back.

And in a second, all thoughts about how they were getting the pictures were wiped away by the picture itself. It took a second for him to orient what he was looking at, but once he recognized it, he laughed, and Fi poked him for it.

Baby Westen was mooning them. And Sarah had been right, there were details galore. He could see very tiny feet, and, eventually, as she moved the probe around, arms, legs, and a head. And she did spend some time getting a lot of images of the heart, and showed them how the blood was flowing the way it was supposed to.

She told them that the baby looked to be ten weeks along, but the doctor would give them a more precise number. Sarah then took a whole lot of measurements, and printed out a stack of photos, several of which Fi and Michael got to keep.

Sarah excused herself, leaving Mike and Fi looking at the image on the screen. He was still holding her hand, but his other hand drifted to her abdomen, and rested lightly against it. She put her hand over his and squeezed it.

* * *

"How'd it go?" Sam asks as they meet up at Carlito's after Fi's OB appointment. Supposedly he's there because Ricky is about to join them for a job consult, but he doesn't need to be there for the consult and he does want to know the appointment went.

Fi's begged off this one, wanting to get a nap. Most of the time Fi having no interest in anything besides sleeping would worry Mike, but he wants a little time to talk to Sam by himself, and with Fi pregnant, he really doesn't mind the idea of her being nowhere near anything that might go boom or might make her want to build something that goes boom. Sure, Ricky's said the job is non-violent, but still...

Sam's staring at him expectantly, and he realized he hasn't answered the question. "Good. She's ten weeks along. Which means the baby is due in August."

"Ten weeks..." Michael can see Sam thinking about that. "We were burning down your home, taking out Card, and cleaning up the mess that came after that. When did you two even find the time to... Never mind, I don't want to know."

Michael finds Sam saying his usual line somewhat surreal.

"How about the rest of it?"

"So far everything looks good. They did an ultrasound so they could figure out how far along Fi was. It's got two arms, two legs, fingers and toes, the heart was beating just fine. It looks a whole lot like a shrimp and is about the size of one as well."

"Boy or girl?"

"Can't tell for another ten weeks. Sam, could you not say anything about this to my mom or Jesse? We still don't know what we're doing, and we'd like to have that planned out before making any announcements."

"Not a problem, Mike. But remember, your mom already knows, and there's only so long you can hide out before she'll be camped out at your place with an excuse to snoop around and see why you two have gone into hiding."

"I know."

They dropped that topic as Ricky came over, sat down, ordered an iced tea, and began to explain how, since Sherrod Washington was out of the game now, the Garden Terrace Mafia was fighting over new leadership. Once upon a time, Valentine, the rapper he works for, used to be a member.

As Ricky pointed out, gang warfare might provide a certain mystique and make for good lyrics, but it's bad business. Everyone will be better off if this problem were to go away.

Valentine offered to negotiate a settlement.

But since Razor G, one of the men in line to gain power was his cousin, the other two factions didn't trust him to be impartial. Looking for a possible impartial man to handle negotiations brought up Mike's name. He's got enough street cred that everyone will accept him as a negotiator. He's got enough of a reputation as a man who's capable of handling himself that he won't be easily intimidated. And he's got a reputation as a man with no vices. He can't be bought off with women, drugs, cars, or cash.

"Let me get this straight, you want me to mediate a takeover of power between three warring gang factions?"

"Exactly," Ricky said. "No matter what happens, or who you find for, all three groups have pledged that no harm will come to you or yours. And if anyone does break that truce, every other member will back you in taking care of the issue."

"But they haven't pledged to abide by what deal I come up with?"

"No. This might only stop the fighting for as long as they're all talking. But it's a start."

"A start." He thinks about it. It certainly sounds like a job that won't involve shooting, at least not at him. Though part of him is wondering if this is some sort of play to take him out because he helped set up Sherrod in the first place. Would Ricky do that to him? Would Ricky even know if that was in the works?

"They really just want a mediator?"

"Just a mediator."

Sitting around, listening to tense and dangerous men talk might not be Mike's favorite pastime ever, but it's easier than being one of those tense and dangerous men.

A thought hits, with Fi pregnant, having a couple hundred extra pairs of eyes watching their back would be a good thing. Another thought hits, they don't have health insurance, and medical care is expensive.

So for the first time ever, he asks, "How much will it pay?"

"Sixty thousand. Each group is willing to put up twenty grand. If you can come up with a plan everyone likes, an additional hundred grand will go on top courtesy of Valentine."

"I'm in." Mike was suddenly feeling extremely motivated to make sure everyone was happy with what he'd come up with.

* * *

Later that evening, Mike came home with dinner. He had a half dozen small plates from one of Fi's favorite restaurants, and was hoping she'd be willing to eat something. The pills made sure that Fi only threw up once or twice a day, instead of six to eight times, but they didn't make her feel good.

The house was dark and cool. Fi hadn't turned on any lights, and twilight had robbed it of the sun.

"Hey, Fi." His fairly standard greeting. He didn't hear a response and went looking for her. Not on the porch or the kitchen, he'd been hoping she'd be one of those two places.

Instead she was in bed, and while it's true that in general Mike is in favor of finding Fi in their bed, lately she's been there so much he's getting worried.

She's on her side, wearing pajamas, and curled under a light blanket. He sits on the bed next to her, touching her face. "Hey."

She shifts a bit, blinks at him, and makes eye contact. "Hey."

"I got small plates from Severnon. Want to have some dinner?"

"No. Just want to sleep."

"You sure? I got all of your favorites. Crispy kale with hazelnuts, hosin lambchops, duck spring rolls..."

"I'm tired, Michael. You eat them. I'll have something tomorrow."

"Please, Fi, you've got to eat."

"Michael, if I eat, I'll just throw it up in half an hour. I just want to sleep."

"Can I at least get you a drink? Sweet tea?" He hates sweet tea, but it's the closest thing to a glucose drip he can think of, and she needs some calories.

"Really, I just want to sleep. I'll get something later."

"Okay. I'll let you rest."

He sets his laptop on the island in the kitchen and unpacks the food. Michael quickly makes up a plate for himself, saving the bits that he thinks look most attractive for Fi, hoping the sight of them tomorrow will get her eating.

Time to google. He's been reading up on pregnancy, so he knows that being tired, crabby, and nauseous is normal. But, Fi's sleeping something like twenty hours a day right now, and he's thinking that's beyond normal tired, beyond even normal pregnancy tired.

He's not really finding anything useful. Nothing says how much sleep a pregnant woman needs, let alone how much sleep she'd want if she's so nauseous she won't eat anything. He certainly understands that if you're not getting much food energy, then you're not going to want to do anything strenuous. Still...

He comes across something about baby blues and warning signs of depression. That looks horribly familiar. There's information about getting help, and about possible medications, but nothing about what to do if you're depressed because your heart is breaking. It seems to Mike that being depressed when you're giving up a baby you desperately want makes sense.

He keeps googling, writing up questions for Fi's doctor, checking how many calories she should be getting, and trying to find a way to fix this.

* * *

Thursday night. Michael is not, under the best of circumstances, a deep sleeper. Slight, out of place noises will pull him from asleep to fully awake in a matter of seconds.

A scream will do it even faster, and bring with it him jerking up, gun in hand, scanning the room for danger.

His heart is still pounding as he sees nothing besides Fi sitting up, screaming.

He drops the gun, and scrambles the few feet toward her. He rubs his hands down her arms. "What is it?" She's not looking at him, doesn't respond to him. "Fi." She's still screaming. "Fi!" He shakes her gently, realizing she's not awake. "Come on, baby, wake up." He doesn't usually call her anything but her name when he's being himself, but right now he's scared and trying to get through whatever dream she's caught in. "Shhhh... You're safe, Fiona. You're here in our bed. It's time to wake up, love. Wake up." He rubs his hands up and down her arms. She jerks a little, and stops screaming.

"Shhhhhh... You're okay, love. We're home." She curls into his arms, feeling very small against his body, and begins sobbing and shivering. He holds her close, lips against her forehead, whispering to her, "Shhhh... It's okay, Fiona, it's okay."

Between sobs, Fi gets out, "She was in danger. She was in danger because of us, in pain because of us, and there was nothing we could do about it."

Michael doesn't need to ask who she is. "We'll find a safe place for her. Far away from here and from us. Somewhere she'll never have to look over her shoulder and worry." His own voice breaks as he says that, but it seems to comfort Fi. Her sobs slow, draining off into quiet tears.

They spent the rest of the night that way, talking and crying, quietly, about the baby they have to give up, the child they'll never know.

The next morning, Fi got out of bed, and actually ate.


	9. Chapter 9

On Sunday of the ninth week, Fi still wasn't really feeling better. The pills helped. She wasn't throwing up, as much. But not throwing up _as much_ was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the same thing as not throwing up at all, or feeling anything even remotely like healthy.

Michael wonders what moron named it morning sickness. From what he can see, the only time Fi isn't feeling sick is the part of the morning between waking up and getting out of bed. Namely, about seven minutes.

She's lost all of the weight she put on. This has produced a strangely curvy and haggard look. Her cheekbones and orbitals are much too prominent. And once again he can count each vertebrae. Yet breasts, hips, and tummy are still more rounded than before. To some degree, she looks like a parody of fashion model chic.

He can hear her retching on the other side of the bathroom door. The first time that happened, he went in to offer comfort and whatever help he could. She made it extremely clear that one thing she did not want was him seeing her like that. So he left, and counted himself lucky she was feeling too tired to have done any damage to him while expressing that opinion.

He finished dressing. They're supposed to be going to his Mom's in an hour, but he isn't sure she's going to be feeling up to it. Madeline isn't a great cook, and they all know this, so for the last month they've been round-robbining the cooking. One of them goes to her place to make dinner, but this week it's Maddie's turn. Even on a good stomach his mom's cooking isn't easy, and roast beef, cooked a few steps beyond well done, a few steps beyond jerky, really, might not be a good plan for Fi.

The toilet flushes and he hears the sound of running water. He hopes that means Fi will be out soon. Sometimes one bout of vomiting seems to take care of it, and she almost feels normal after.

He hears the water shut off, but the door to their bathroom doesn't open.

A lot of the time, it doesn't.

Mike sat on the bed, looking at the ultrasound pictures. Tonight, no matter what, they are going to tell his mom and Jesse.

He's looking at the side shot. Arms, legs, finger and toe buds, supposedly the start of ears and fingernails. He flips to the next shot, the heart. The baby is about an inch long now, which means the heart is...about the size of a sunflower seed. He can remember the whooshing sound, and the sight of the blood moving through it.

As he thinks about that, sees the ultrasound image of the blood flowing in his mind, he remembers Nate's last heartbeat, and the feel of his blood as it stopped moving. Those images, sensations, vibrant in his mind, and suddenly keeping that tiny heart beating is the most important thing in his life.

And if that heart is going to keep beating, then it's best given to someone else. Someone who lives a safe, boring life far away from Miami, and the hundreds of enemies he and Fi have made over the years.

Setting a deadline for telling everyone isn't about making the decision. It's not like they've been waffling. They haven't been having long, fraught conversations about their options. They know what they're going to do. Mostly, the purpose of the deadline is to give them as much time to pretend as they can.

But as soon as they go public with this, they lose that ability to pretend, to fantasize about a life with the child and each other.

Fi comes out twenty minutes later, she's got makeup on and looks, well, if he's being honest, sick. Sure, it's better than when she's not got makeup on, but nothing about her says vibrant or healthy right now.

"How are you feeling?" It's a dumb question, and he knows it's a dumb question, but he doesn't have anything better in mind.

"Like I'm in the middle of the longest hangover ever."

"Do you want to skip this?"

She flops onto the bed. "Yes."

"You can. I'll go talk to her—"

"But I'm not going to."

"You don't have to do this. It's not going to be easy—"

Fi sits up and holds his hands. "I know; that's why you aren't going to do it alone. She's not just your mom. She's the grandmother of _our_ child, Michael. We'll do it together."

"Okay."

It's a short drive. And, with the weight of what they're about to say, half an hour is going even faster than usual.

"I don't think I've ever looked forward to a conversation with my mom less." He was certainly dreading about telling her about Nate, but now, because he's had that conversation with her, this one is even more daunting. One more loss on top of a year packed with loss. One more moment of watching her eyes take in the details and see that something horrible is coming, one more moment of watching calm crumble into something terrible and terrifying.

Fi squeezes his hand as he parks the Charger in front of his mom's house.

"She'll understand."

"I hope so."

Before Nate died, he's sure she would have understood, and probably agreed that putting the baby up for adoption was the right thing to do. Now, though? Anything from looking at them calmly to bursting into tears and punching him is on the list of possible reactions.

They walk in, and Fi's still holding his hand. He appreciates the comfort of her touch, and is sure that his mom will see and know something is very wrong.

She's in the kitchen, messing with something on the stove.

"Michael, Fi, you're early." She quickly grinds out her cigarette and opens the window. Looks like Sam was right about not smoking around Fi.

"We want to talk to you," Michael says.

"Well, you're here, talk." There's a bit of a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She knows half of what's coming next and appears amused.

Michael takes a deep breath, sure the next moment is going to go very slowly. "Ma, Fi's pregnant." And it does. It's an agonizing few seconds. He sees the grin break out on her face. She moves toward Fi, ready to embrace her, but then she notices neither of them are smiling. This should be good news, but they look like they're announcing a funeral. The grin falters, slips from her face, and she stops a step away from Fi, her hands drop from Fi's shoulders and fall to her sides.

She turns to Michael, and he can see fear and anger on her face. "That's not all of it, is it?"

"No. We aren't keeping the baby. It'll be safer raised by someone else."

The look she gives him is withering with its scorn and disappointment. "Bullshit! You've always been afraid of truly, fully, insanely loving someone, and this is just your fear coming out." She turns to FI. "And you." She shakes her head, looks mad enough to spit at Fi. "How could you let him convince you of this? I've always expected more from you."

In normal circumstances, say, before Nate died, before the last year where every pillar of his life but this family was ripped away from him, Michael would have taken a deep breath and responded in a cool, even if that coolness was only a skin-deep veneer, and rational method.

But he can't do it now. He's too emotionally exhausted, and the image of their child's heartbeat won't leave his mind. "Bullshit?" He yells it, and Madeline flinches away, while Fi grips his hand. "Do you think I like this? Do you think Fi and I just want to dispose of an inconvenient child?"

The part of Madeline that flinched vanishes, and all that's left is five feet of fire, leaning toward Mike, wanting to fight, wanting to hurt him as badly as she's hurting right now. "Yes! You'll always take a little pain in the short term to avoid emotional entanglements, to avoid having to love something." And he's sure nothing his mother has ever said has cut him this badly. "If you're not going to keep it, you should just have an abortion and be done with it. Sitting here torturing all of us for the next seven months is just cruel."

His brain slows to a crawl. There's literally nothing going on in there.

He hears Fi, from what sounds like a very long distance say, "I left the IRA because I wouldn't kill innocent people; you think I'm going to start with my own child?"

"Please. Don't get high and mighty with me. It's not a child, not to you. If it was a child, if it was your son or daughter, you wouldn't give it away. You give away _things_, not children. You're both being cowards, and I don't want either of you in my house. Leave!"

Fi tugs him, still in shock, out of the house. They're half way to the Charger when his mom opens the door and yells, "People like you don't deserve children!"

* * *

Three hours later Sam shows up at their door, with Jesse in tow.

"You told your mom."

Michael hands him a beer as Sam settles in at the breakfast bar. Jesse leans in next to him and takes another beer.

"Yeah. She didn't take it well."

"We know," Jesse said. "That was the least comfortable meal in the history of food. By the way, you don't tell me in person, I get to find out from your mom?"

Michael sighs, and Jesse feels like an ass. He was trying to lighten the mood, but seeing how wounded Michael looks makes him want to kick himself. "Jesse, Fi and I are going to have a baby and then give it away. We were planning on telling you tonight at dinner, but we told my mom first, and she kicked us out of the house."

"I know. I'm sorry. Where's Fi?"

"In our bathroom. She cried until she started throwing up again, and I've been ordered not to stick around for the throwing up. If you're willing to risk getting your head cut off, you can go in and see if she wants company."

"I'll do that." Jesse stands up, goes to the fridge, grabs one of the Gatorades for Fi, and heads to the bedroom.

"How's she doing?" Michael asks Sam.

"Angry. Really, really angry. Embarrassed. Jesse and I went over exactly how many of your biggest fans are still out and about, and how some of the ones who aren't have a track record of getting out. Detailing how Simon managed to get free of a super secret, super high security facility once already seemed to bring home the idea that you've got very dangerous enemies. I think that got through angry, but then there was sad. Mourning. I think she had fantasies of the four of you all doing family things together, like Christmas and birthday parties, and now it's gone. She'd gotten some baby clothes and toys, and when we got there she was packing them up and getting ready to take them back."

Michael's posture slumped, and he got up, got himself a glass and poured a shot of scotch. "I know the feeling." He shoots it back and heads into their bedroom. The door to the bathroom is open, and he can hear Fi and Jesse's voices. He goes to the nightstand and gets the pictures.

In a second, he's back with Sam. He lays out the pictures. "This is our child, Sam." He touches the pictures. "And these are the only sorts of pictures we're ever going to have of her... him... We won't be there for Christmas or birthdays. We won't band aid scrapes, or teach him to fight. He'll never learn how to turn a cell phone into a tracker, or how to turn kitchen equipment into firebombs. But he'll also never be used as a pawn. He won't get kidnapped, held for ransom, or killed for revenge."

He touches the picture again. "We'll never know if he has his mother's eyes or mine, but he'll be safe."

He hears the front door close, and his mom, crying, walks into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Michael. I am so, so sorry."

* * *

A/N: Okay, I can hear you all thinking, "Keryl, what the hell? Fluff with a side of angst! I've been crying for three chapters now, what sort of fluff is this?" ;) Okay, not really, but I know from the comments that some of you are concerned about this.

I'm a novelist by trade. (Really, go to Amazon, search Keryl Raist, you'll find three novels. I wrote them.) 38 Weeks was my NaNoWriMo, and I made word count. As a novelist, I'm a firm believer in the fully rounded plot arc where an issue will arise, different options for dealing with the issue will be floated, tried, and eventually discarded, finally a solution will be chosen and everyone will get behind it. Likewise I'm a firm believer in the character arc, where whatever issue is driving the plot will cause the characters to change over the course of the story.

As of 11/30 I'd written the entire the first draft of 38 Weeks, so I can promise you the following:

A. I will finish this. You aren't going to be left hanging at week 23. I'll be updating every Saturday and Wednesday from now until March 13th.

B. Sad stuff will resolve, but not right away. Multiple potential solutions to the issue will be explored. But on the sad front, this was the worst, hardest chapter. It perks up from here.

C. The fluff will return, and it will be glorious clouds of cottony joy.

D. But not so fluffy that Mike and Fi go horrendously OOC. It'll be Burn Notice fluff.

E. There is a happy ending, and when I write a happy ending, I happy the ever-living-snot out of it. None of this we're-at-peace-with-the-sad-stuff sort of endings for me, or you, dear readers. Nooo... happy is coming, and it'll be way happy. There are five weddings in the epilogue. Characters you haven't even met yet are going to get a happily ever after.

F. You'll be glad you kept reading.

Okay, see you at on Saturday, with Week 10, where there will be no crying.


	10. Chapter 10

On Monday of the tenth week, Michael waited at Carlito's. His ride would be there soon.

One of the conditions of playing mediator for the Garden Terrace Mafia is that he won't know where the negotiations take place. One of his conditions was that they wouldn't know where he lives. So, he waits in front of Carlito's.

When he left that morning, Fi and his mom were working on anti-nausea smoothies. After a very hard weekend that involved all three of them doing a lot of crying, Madeline had gotten behind them on putting the baby up for adoption, and having done so, she switched into hyper-coddling mode for Fi.

So, he's glad she's on board with what they're doing. Very glad that she's working on something Fi might eat. And especially glad to be getting out of the house. He doesn't feel the need to know all the gory details of both his and his brother's pregnancy or birth.

His ride arrives. It's not inconspicuous. A stretch Hummer with black windows doesn't exactly blend into the neighborhood. For the first time in a very long time, Michael feels very, very white.

As a kid, the neighborhood he grew up was mixed, 60-40, white to black. His best friend was black. Hell, Jesse, who might not be his best friend now, but he's awfully close, is black. And while black and white culture were pretty far apart in the seventies, he feels like it's gotten much further apart as time has marched by.

Michael Westen, who is, for all practical purposes, a chameleon, has found a background he can't melt into. And it's a bit off-putting. The fact that he can't quite read the four men around him is off-putting, too. He knows the gold jewelry and teeth are a sign of status, but not what level of status they indicate. He can't read the tattoos the way he could if he was doing this for the Mafia or a Russian gang. He doesn't know the clothing. He doesn't know the music. He can't just look at these men and know where they fit in the hierarchy.

He gets into the Hummer and realizes it's not just the fact that he's awfully white. He's also awfully old. If any of the men in the Hummer are over thirty, hell, twenty-five, he'd be shocked. Usually, in the Mafia or a Russian gang, or any half-decent South American gun or drug running operation, there's someone his age around, someone older, with a proven track record of being a cooler head.

At least they didn't put a bag over his head. Sure, he can't see out the windows, so he doesn't know where he's going, but the fact that he can see the men around him is a good sign of trust.

They don't say anything, and no matter what, people are people, so he can read their faces well enough to know they aren't thrilled about him being here, but they aren't openly hostile, either.

After an hour's drive, he's in a parking garage. They let him out, escort him to an elevator, and press a button with no number. One hundred and eighty-eight seconds until the doors open. Slow elevator, or he's on a high floor, but not so high that his ears popped on the way up.

The doors open and he's facing an extraordinarily posh penthouse. It's decorated in cool whites and blues, floor to ceiling windows are closed and hidden behind opaque curtains. Everything that could be done to provide a sense of anonymous, placeless opulence has been done to this space.

Ricky is waiting for him, another man next to him. He's tall, broad shouldered, would have been handsome if not for a badly healed broken nose, looks to be about twenty-five.

"Michael, let me introduce you to Razor G." Ricky says.

They shake hands. Razor's are hard, strong, from the feel of the knuckles, it's not just his nose that's been broken in the past. "Razor, this is Michael Westen."

"Hello."

"Hey."

There are drinks, food, a few legal pads, nice pens, and a recording device on a coffee table flanked by white leather sofas.

"Michael, you can ask anything you like, take whatever notes you like, but nothing leaves here."

"I understand."

"Razor, you've agreed to answer any questions Michael has. His job is to talk with you, Big T, and Jaydd about your plans, what you'd like to do with the Garden Terrace, how you want to do it, and see if he can come up with some sort of plan or compromise."

"'Kay."

With that Ricky left, and Michael started the conversation.

He got home seven hours later. Seven exhausting hours later.

"How was it?" Fi asked as he sat down to dinner. This would be a lovely little play on the idea of a traditional domestic scene if not for the fact that Fi's not eating and they're talking about the inner workings of a gang.

"Have you ever read or see the Godfather?"

"Read it, a long time ago."

He's very pleased to see she seems interested in this conversation, and is dressed in something besides pajamas. He's guessing his mom got her out of the house today.

"Okay, imagine Luca Brasi is trying to make a play to take over the Corleons."

"Ohhh. Not good."

"Exactly. Razor runs the muscle. The only reason he's even at the table is because the big scary guys with guns back him."

"That'll usually get you a place at the table."

"Sure, but there's no way you should be running the group if all you've got is big scary guys with guns. And I think he knows it. He seemed to be hoping to have me find someone to run it for him as well."

"I guess that's a good thing."

"I think so, too. I'm just worried that if he's one of the top three talents this group has on offer that, no matter what I come up with, this isn't going to work."

"Do you find it bizarre that you're working to make a gang more effective?"

"Yeah, it's a bit surreal. But, if I don't then that's a neighborhood that's going to break into open warfare, and no one will be better off with that."

"That I understand." And she would. She grew up in an open warzone, where in many neighborhoods the local organized crime ring was the only thing keeping up any semblance of civic society.

On Tuesday, he met with Sam and Jesse and Fi for dinner at Carlito's. It was actually kind of fun to just hang out without talking job strategy. This whole doing work that doesn't involve getting shot at thing is growing on him.

Finally, as the meal was winding down, Sam asks, "So, Consigliari, how goes the negotiations?"

He half sighs, half snorts. He has become the Garden Terrace Consigliari. "I got to spend six hours with a guy named Big T today. He appears to be the brains of the operation." Michael spends a moment thinking about how to describe the man he spent the day with. "Imagine Barry without a college education, his knowledge of banks and financial planning, or metrosexual fashion and spiky hair. In the place of all of that, put an encyclopedic knowledge of governmental organizations that pay out money, for anything. Eight hundred people live in the Terrace, and he's got 1200 signed up for food stamps, 1600 on Aid to Dependent Families, 600 on Social Security—"

"What, he didn't sign them all up?" Sam asked.

"If there are as many as sixty people in the Terrace old enough to collect, I'd be shocked. Anyway, he's got 400 on Disability, 1500 on Medicaid another 600 on Medicare, 6000 registered to vote, 1100 on Unemployment. He's even got twelve of them getting farm subsidies. If there's a way to get money from the government, he's got it. He's got a shop in one of the Terrace apartments that sells all of the stuff they get using WIC and SNAP at a hefty mark up."

"Okay. How much is he making?" Sam looks concerned as he asks.

"He's banking at least six million a year."

"Six million! Where are they parking that money?" Jesse asks. They'd all been to the Terrace, and name aside, it's not a garden spot. Six million a year, if actually split between the people who live there would be a very comfortable life. Hell, if they raked three million of it off, and split the rest between the people who lived there, it'd still be a comfortable life.

"Big T would like to know that, too. He knows what happened with his cut, twenty percent, but not what Sherrod did with the rest of it."

"I guess you found the brains of the operation," Sam says as he sips his mojito.

"I think so."

"Did he have any long term plans?" Jesse asked.

"Besides pout and take his ball home if he doesn't end up in charge? No. Though he was also willing to hint that everyone in the Terrace would get indicted for fraud if he didn't come away from the deal smiling. Except him. He didn't outright say it, but my guess is he's got protection in the government somewhere."

"He's probably trading votes for protection," Jesse said.

"I'd assume so. Likely some of the money is going to kickbacks to make sure no one looks to close at his paperwork."

"Sounds like a real charmer," Fi says.

"Oh, he was."

"Who's up tomorrow?" Fi asks.

"Jaydd. Apparently he's the guy who runs the drugs and girls."

"Even better," Sam says.

As of January, Michael is forty-six years old. He's spent half of those years outside of the United States. And in many of those years, he's been in cultures that are very much not the United States, so he's not typically American when it comes to working girls.

Pretty much, if you're an adult, like sex, and want to make a living at it, he's got no problems with that.

And, over the course of his long and storied career, he's had occasions where he's worked with prostitutes. In Russia, for example, his cover was often high-end business man. In Russia, high-end business deals involve the wining and dining phase (okay, the caviar and vodka phase) and then wrap up with sauna and girls.

And those girls have been worth every ruble he's paid them in information and happy assets.

Those girls, pretty, happy, and discreet, were more than willing to let him bug a room ahead of time, and listen in while they asked innocent leading questions after the sex, when the men are drunk, relaxed, and willing to talk.

And as a "business man" he's been on the receiving end of the girls and booze phase of operations as well, and knowing that the room he was in was likely bugged, he used that as a way to let information he wanted to get out "slip."

But, just like the term feline covers everything from a lion to a tabby cat, prostitute covers a very wide array of girls as well.

Jaydd is telling him about "his" girls. Though he doesn't use the term girls. And though, on occasion the term Jaydd does use has wandered out of Mike's mouth, usually prefaced by "son of a," he really doesn't like the way Jaydd is saying it. From the sound of it, his "girls" may be pretty, but they won't be for long. They're happy, as long as he keeps doling out the meth. And they are very much not adults who like sex and think this is a fun line of work. They aren't adults period.

Michael is doing everything he can to not let his face show how much he wants to jump up, eviscerate the man in front of him, and then choke him to death on his own entrails.

He listens to Jaydd talk about how he and the Johns have no use for the girls after they've had a few kids. That's why he gets them young. About how sometimes he needs to teach them "lessons" to keep them in line and make sure they treat the Johns nice.

Supposedly this is convincing Mike he's got managerial skills.

Mostly, it's reminding Mike of Afghanistan in the '80s. Back then, the Taliban, well, the guys who would eventually become the Taliban, were on the same side as the US. Some of those guys, the ones who liked to run about town, looking for women "acting immodestly" and beat the living hell out of them, sometimes killing them, rose high when the US got out.

And Jaydd would have gotten on fabulously with them.

Mike can feel his palpable hate towards women. He can see Jaydd relishing telling tales of beating his girls, making sure they "behave." And though he won't look to make sure, Michael can tell from the way he's sitting, from the way he's talking, that retelling how he beat those girls is giving Jaydd a hard-on.

Michael knows how this goes, where it ends. Right now Jaydd roughs them up, enjoying the pain. Given enough time, pain alone won't do it. He'll be killing them, maybe not next week, but soon enough that it makes Michael very nervous.

It's the only interview where he takes no notes

, asks few questions, and is done in less than an hour.

When he gets home, he hops in the shower and scrubs, hard. Fi slips in behind him, takes the soap and scrubby away from him.

"You got a shower this morning. What happened?"

"I spent an hour with the most despicable human in Miami." He told Fi about Jaydd and was pleased to see she had absolutely no problem with him having some sort of accident, possibly involving massive jail time, or a six foot deep hole if not.

On Thursday, he asks Ricky to set up a meeting with Valentine. This time, it's on his turf. The penthouse at the Dearaborn might not be the most convenient location, but he can control it. No one who isn't invited to this meeting will get to listen in.

Sam and Jesse escort Valentine in. He seems irked to see Sam, apparently he remembers their previous meeting. He looks around the penthouse and says, "Barbara Mandrell?"

Sam half shrugs. "It was the first name I could think of."

Drinks are offered, everyone sits down. Michael says, "Ricky tells me you'll pay me one hundred thousand dollars if everyone comes away from this deal happy."

Valentine nods.

"Is there anyone else who can run this gang?" Valentine smiles, and Mike feels a sense of relief. "When you said everyone happy, you don't mean those three I spent the last few days talking to?"

Valentine sips his drink, and then carefully puts it down. "Not at all. When I grew up there, we were poor, no two ways about it, but we were safe, and a lot of us didn't stay poor forever. Less than twenty percent of us dropped out of high school. We got jobs, moved up in the world, built families. The Garden Terrace was a community where people who were poor could stay while they got back on their feet. Once upon a time, they got back on their feet.

"It's not like that anymore. People go there, and they don't leave. They go and rot. Big T makes sure they stay forever, because the longer they stay the richer he gets. Jaydd sees it as a farm producing new generations of girls he can sell, and addicts he can make money off of. It's time that the Garden Terrace Project gets back to being what it was supposed to be, a haven for poor families in need of help.

"Don't get me wrong. I don't want anything to happen to Razor. He's family, and when this is done, I'll find a place for him in my organization. But the other two..." Valentine's smile makes it clear that anything that takes those two out of the game is welcome.

"If a power vacuum were to appear, is there someone who can step in?" Michael asks.

"Yes. His name is Tyler. He's keeping his head down now, because he doesn't have the guns to go up against the other three. But if they got out of the way, he'd be able to get things going right."

Michael nods. "We'll set it up. First step, Big T is going to be in charge for a while. Of the three of them, he looks like he'll do the best job. Come November, I think he's going to get caught with a massive voter fraud problem. At the level he's doing it, we'll be able to get City, County, State, and Federal charges against him. While he's inside, the rest of his fraud ring is going to be found."

"What about..." Valentine asked, knowing exactly how many barely literate people who live in the Terrace signed anything that Big T gave them.

"We'll make sure it doesn't splash back on the people in the Terrace. Big T is good. My people are better. We'll make sure it looks like he did it by himself."

"And Jaydd?"

"Not sure yet. But by the end of the month, he'll be gone."

"So, come December, Tyler will be in a position to start running things?" Valentine asks.

"Yes."

"Good. Ricky told me that if anyone could get this sorted out, it was you. I'm very glad to see he was right."

"Thank you. Do you know anyone out of state who might want some girls? I think it'd be a really good idea for Jaydd to get caught by an FBI human trafficking sting."

"I can arrange for him to provide entertainment for a gig in Atlanta."

"And I can arrange for some friendly Feds to grab him and the girls when he crosses the border," Sam said.

"Won't they wonder that you and Mike were involved in this?" Jesse asks.

"They might, but for the sake of getting rid of Jaydd, no one will ask any questions. Big T is the one who has to be taken care of delicately, he's got too many others roped into his frauds."

"We'll take care of it," Mike said.


	11. Chapter 11

Week Eleven

Thursday night, just a typical evening (for now at least, which means it's not all that typical for the last six years) at the Glenanne-Westen home. Just like everyone else, spies, or ex-spies, have some sort of homelife. Granted, in the case of Mike and Fi, it looks a bit like a parody of normal life. They're in bed, reading. Normal enough, until you realize they're in bed because unless you count the stools at the breakfast bar, there are no other chairs in their home, or look at what they're reading.

Michael is laying on his stomach, looking at the screen of his laptop, reading about bitcoins and making a list of questions for Barry. He's very interested in the idea of a currency independent of any government and currently untraceable.

Fi is lying on her side, reading the newest _Demolitions Technica_. Yes, demolition experts have trade journals. And yes, if you want to be good at explosives, you need to keep up on the trade. And unlike googling bombs or the like, keeping up on the latest in demolition and mining will give you a much better grounding on new things that go boom, how to use them, and is much less likely to get you on a terrorist watch list.

Fi also has subscriptions to locksmithing, safe building, chemistry, and metallurgical journals, and Car and Driver. She likes to keep up with the things she's good at.

Michael's scanning the article, thinking through the possibilities of having a back-up cushion in electronic cash, and possibly taking payment in it as well, when his phone buzzes. He doesn't recognize the number and for a second a thrill of fear flows through him. Who could have found this number?

He lets it ring, and it goes to voicemail.

He feels a little less concerned. The bad guys rarely leave messages.

Michael listens to the message and deletes it. The jewelry store. His rings are ready. He feels a smile start and shuts it down, fast. Last thing he wants to do is give this away to Fi.

She's also got that slightly scared look in her eye. Sam, Jesse, or Madeline and he wouldn't have let it go to voicemail. And no strangers should have that number.

He puts the phone down and shakes his head. "Wrong number. Someone looking for Emily."

She stares at him for a long minute.

"Nothing's starting up. Just a wrong number, really."

"Really?"

"Really. No one out to get us. Just someone trying to get ahold of whoever had this number before me."

"Okay."

She goes back to her reading, but he can see her shoulders are still a little tense. Could it have been a test call? Call in, see who answers, use it to trace them? It shouldn't be. After they got back they got new phones, and then more new phones. Nothing is in either of their names. But still, after the last year especially, they've been scared cautious.

* * *

The next morning, Madeline showed up shortly after breakfast and reported they were low on ginger and mint. While living with a hypochondriac gives you a very good understanding of pharmacology, actually being a hypochondriac gives you an encyclopedic knowledge of just about anything that could be considered "medicine."

Which means, since Maddie's been on the job, anything even remotely likely to help with morning sickness has been in their home.

She's even come up with a concoction that Fi will drink, a mix of mint, ginger, sugar cane, bananna, a little vanilla yogurt, and milk. Michael doesn't care what's in it; he'll happily go get it, because it does seem to stay down and makes her feel a little better. Better yet, hovering over Fi and researching pregnancy related information seems to be helping his mom deal with giving the baby away.

From what he can tell, this as good as it's likely to get, so he's happy to do anything to keep things moving that way.

On top of that, it is pretty tasty. As Sam said, one afternoon, helping Michael fix up the hot tub and put up shelves, "You know, if you add about two shots of rum to this, it'd be perfect."

Going out to get more of the ingredients gives him another chance to get out of the house by himself without raising any suspicions. So, off he goes, in search of mint and ginger.

He's half-way out the door when Madeline says, "Michael, how about you pick up a few flower pots, some dirt, and mint plants."

"I can do that."

"Good. The last batch you got didn't seem very fresh. You've got a nice sunny patch by the hot tub, so we can grow some there."

"I will get you mint plants. Anything else?"

Madeline looks at Fi, and she shrugs. "Aloe? We could probably use some of that, too."

"Mint, ginger, aloe, and gardening hardware. I'll be back in a bit. Want me to pick up any lunch?"

"Not for us. I've got aqua yoga at eleven, and I'm dragging Fi along whether she wants to go or not. Exercise is good for you, honey. It'll help you feel better."

Fi doesn't look like she believes that at all, but she does seem like she'll go along with it. Michael's not sure if his mom dragging Fi out on errands, to go shopping, and to her exercise classes actually helps with Fi's depression, but it does get her out of the house, thinking about other things, and isn't dangerous. Like with the mint smoothies, Mike figures that's probably about as good as it's going to get for the time being. It's not ideal, but it's better than it was, and hopefully, tonight, he'll be able to coax a real smile and maybe even a laugh out of Fi.

* * *

He hits jewelry store first. Technically, it's spring, which means it's only in the mid-80s outside, but inside the Charger, it's a whole lot hotter. So groceries, or plants, aren't going to be happy baking in his car.

It takes the clerk a few minutes to find his order, but the wait was worth it. Both rings are nestled into a small gray velvet box. Mike tries his on and is surprised at how right, how comfortable it feels on his finger.

He's played a married man before, and until he was doing it with Fi as his Mrs. the ring never mattered. On it would go for however long, and then off again without a second thought. Hell, less than two months after playing the role with Fi, he was doing it with Pearce, and not once during that entire time did the wedding ring he was wearing ever enter his mind.

But when he was Mr. Jensen, it was there in the back of his mind all the time. He was very aware of the slight weight of the metal and the huge weight of the promise behind it.

He hadn't been ready then. Hadn't quite gotten his mind into the right place, let alone his life.

This time, the ring slides on and it rests on his finger, safe and secure. He smiles as he twists it around a bit, so the x the platinum and titanium makes is visible on his finger.

He takes Fi's ring, and slips it onto his finger. It goes to just slightly beyond the first knuckle of his ring finger. It's smooth and cool on his flesh. He really hopes she likes it.

"Is everything satisfactory?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful."

He knows he made some sort of small talk while paying and putting the rings back in their box. Part of him wants to just grab Fi, head over to the courthouse, and get this done today. Get those rings where they belong.

A bigger part of him, the part that's sort of aware of this romance thing, and more aware of the fact that Fi's been sick for weeks and would probably like to be feeling healthy, and if it's possible, happy, for her wedding, thinks that tonight might be a good night to propose, but not a good night to get married.

With that thought, he put the rings in his pocket, and heads to the gardening store. He's got plants to buy.

* * *

The thing about proposing to a woman in the middle of first trimester exhaustion and morning sickness is that all of the traditional "romantic" options are out. You don't take a woman to a restaurant when the merest whiff of the wrong food will send her running to the nearest sink to throw up. Likewise a romantic walk on the beach at sunset isn't so romantic when your partner is feeling nauseous and tired.

So, maybe it won't be the most traditionally romantic evening ever. There's plenty of time for romance later... he hopes. If the books his mom keeps bringing over are anything to go by, Fi should start feeling better any day now.

Which leaves... Bed. Bed is good. At lot of their best moments have been in bed. Granted, not this bed, this bed is new, but still, when it comes to romance the spirit of the gesture matters, right?

She's already there. Has been since the sun set. They'd been on the porch, soaking up the evening breezes and sunset, planting mint, aloe, and the basil, oregano, thyme, cilantro, and parsley he got. She'll be feeling better eventually, and he likes to cook, so fresh herbs on the back porch seemed like a good idea. They wrapped up as the sun vanished behind the house next door, and with that Fi went inside.

He went about his bedtime routine, slipping into some carefully selected pajama pants, the only pair he has with pockets.

She's sitting on the side bed, reading. He sits next to her, and kisses her shoulder.

"Do you want to get married?"

She looks startled. Obviously, she wasn't expecting it. "Are you asking because of the baby?"

"No." And he can honestly say that. He'd ordered the rings before he knew about the baby. "I want you with me for the rest of our lives. And, though I wouldn't know firsthand, yet, rumor has it people get married when they feel that way." Fi doesn't appear to be buying this line. "I was working up to it, you know. Survive Panama, finish Card, get us cleared, settle into new normal, ask Fi to marry me. It was on the list."

"You had a list?" She's smiling. That she believes.

"A plan, really. But, it was part of it. I almost asked when we were in Panama, but telling you I was done with the CIA was a better first step. I wanted to be free of that before I made a life-long commitment."

She thinks about that. "Give me a real proposal and you can find out."

He takes her book, marks the page, and puts it on the floor, then pulls her, gently, into his lap, stroking her face. "And what does a 'real proposal' look like?"

"You know: bended knee, pretty words, a ring, romantic location."

He kisses her neck, and shifts her out of his lap, settling her on the edge of the bed. Her eyes go wide when he kneels on the floor in front of her, between her legs. He kisses each hand, each finger, and then looks into her eyes. "I didn't ask in Panama because I couldn't make you the most important thing in my life. Not then. But I can now. Fiona, marry me, and be the most important thing in my world. Build a life with me, and let me spend the rest of my days wrapping my life around yours."

She kisses him for a long time after he says that. He pulls back, cups her face, and quickly kisses her lips, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small gray velvet box.

"You actually have a ring?" She looks amused and curious.

He smiles at her. "I've got a romantic location, sort of, if you lay back, you'll be in the same position you were when I first told you I loved you."

She laughs, happy. First time she's laughed in days and it makes him realize how much he's missed her laugh. "Not precisely the same position."

"We can fix that." He smiles widely and quickly kisses her lips, his hands tracing down her back and settling on her hips. His touch is firm, warm, and suggestive. And even if it wasn't, his grin is certainly promising good things for later tonight.

He breaks eye contact and opens the box. Fi inhales sharply. "I actually have two rings, though yours is in two parts." He takes hers out, and removes the titanium from the platinum. Leaving the engagement ring on its own.

"This half is for now."

She stares at it for a long moment, light sparkling off the asscher cut diamond. "You remembered."

"I remembered. Will you wear it? And, as soon as you want, let me put the other half on your finger, while you put this one on mine?"

"Yes."

He leaned up to kiss her, slipping the ring onto her finger, and maybe it wasn't a candlelit dinner, or a walk on the beach with the wind tossing her hair about, but he's here with her, in their bed, in their home, and that's all the romance he wants or needs.

And tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever she's feeling better, they can go do something traditionally romantic.


	12. Chapter 12

By the twelfth week, when Fi was still spending most of her time lying about feeling sick and tired, Michael had moved from starting to get worried to really worried. Officially, she's fourteen weeks pregnant. He'd read all the books his mom had brought over, and they all seemed to concur that exhaustion and morning sickness should end around the twelfth week, unless it didn't.

On Wednesday, they had the finish-up-the-first-trimester doctor's appointment, and according to Doctor Johnson everything seemed to be fine. Which Michael doubted, quite a bit. Fi's lost twelve pounds in five weeks, and he's sure women are supposed to gain weight when they're pregnant.

And she hasn't done much besides sleep in weeks.

She gets out of bed every day, but not for very long some days, and she doesn't seem very interested in much of anything. He can get little flashes of her to come out, for example: she was awfully enthusiastic about planning out how Jaydd was going to get caught by the Feds, and the night after proposing she'd seemed a lot more like herself, but for the most part she's listless and sick.

The doc says that's normal, too. Early pregnancy can cause depression, and given the circumstances with the adoption this is to be expected. If she's not feeling better soon, not that Doctor Johnson expects Fi to be frolicking about in sunshine and meadows or anything, but there's a difference between depressed and sad, they can start to talk about medication that's safe for pregnant women.

It doesn't matter if this may be within the range of normal, it scares Michael, more than he wants to admit. He's used to Fi angry, or Fi frustrated, or Fi happy. He's used to her active. Fi is fire; she's always moving and changing and shifting and doing something.

But now she's ice, slow, cold, fragile.

He doesn't like to think of her as fragile. Doesn't like to think of her sick or broken. Doesn't like to be reminding how fragile people are in general, but her in specific... Fi's supposed to be active energy.

As they got home from the doctor's, and she went back to bed, he's afraid that this might not end. Afraid that something about her is broken and can't be fixed. Afraid that this is more than just a chemical shift brought on by raging hormones and a heartbreaking choice.

He's afraid that losing this child might open a hole in her that can't be healed. He watches her sleep, and worries about it, not sure what, if anything, can be done, or how to go about even trying to find out.

* * *

Madeline showed up the next morning with a pamphlet from an adoption agency.

"I talked to Mrs. Kennedy down the street, and her daughter and son-in-law used Anderson's. They were very pleased by it, thought it was professional, that they went the extra mile to make sure everyone was happy, and that they knew what they were doing."

Mike sighs. They should be researching this. They should be making up lists and talking to people, making calls, and getting to know potential adoptive parents.

They should be, but they aren't.

It occurs to him that dragging their feet on this might be a sign of depression in both of them, or just a sign of not wanting to deal with reality. Yes, they can claim to be waiting for the first trimester and the biggest risk of a miscarriage to pass before doing anything, but they'd be lying. Not moving on this has nothing to do with possibly setting up something they might not have to do.

"Thanks, Ma. I'll give them a call later this afternoon. Set up an appointment, or however it is people do this."

"Good. And how's Fi feeling this morning?"

Fi came into the kitchen and poured herself an anti-nausea smoothie. "I don't want to jinx anything, but so far, I'm feeling pretty good this morning."

Madeline smiled. "Glad to hear it. I was telling Mi..." Her eyes caught on Fi's left hand as she lifted the glass. "What's that?"

Now it was Michael's turn to smile, genuinely glad to have something happy to tell his mom. "I took your advice and didn't wait for this one to propose to me."

This time, time doesn't slow down, and there's no yelling, and the hug doesn't come to a halt half-way completed. After a minute, when Madeline pulls away from hugging Fi, she says to Michael, "It's about time. So, when, where, tell me all about it..."

Michael looks vaguely uncomfortable. "Thursday night, in bed, and you probably don't need any more details than that."

Madeline swats Michael's arm. "Not that. Tell me about the wedding. You two have talked about it, right?"

Maddie watches the two of them looking at each other with no clear ideas in either of their minds.

"You know, the whole point of getting engaged is the idea that, at some point after, you'll make some vows about living together for the rest of your life, in front of your friends and family, and then have a big party about them."

"One step at a time, Ma."

Fi smiles at Madeline. "I do know one thing, no matter how we do this, I'd like you stand up with me."

Madeline hugs Fi again.

* * *

Jesse took the news very well. He hopped up, offering congratulations, and kissed Fi on the cheek, followed by a somewhat awkward moment of hugging Mike, a not even remotely awkward slap on the back, and a few somewhat bawdy comments.

All in all, Sam took the news pretty well, too. Of course, he was already sitting down when they told him. Not that it was too shocking; people get married all the time, and it's not like he thinks Mike and Fi are breaking up anytime in the future, but still there's something so, normal, about getting married.

And Mike and Fi aren't normal.

Married, house in the... okay it's not precisely the 'burbs, but it is a house with a backyard, kid on the way, though they aren't keeping the kid...

Maybe not normal.

So he offers the congratulations, and makes the right jokes about the idea of Fi wedding planning, and he's properly honored to be the best man, but it's still... unsettling.

He's home that night, sitting on the balcony, slowly sipping a beer, when Elsa comes in.

"Hey, beautiful. I'm out here." She comes out, slipping off her shoes, and sits in his lap. He offers her a kiss and a drink of his beer. "How was today?"

He listens to her talk about mergers, labor relations, profit loss statements, and the like. Tomorrow is her monthly report to the board, so today she's been getting all of her information ready. He likes hearing about this, likes the reminder that she's utterly competent and has a brain under those beautiful brown locks.

She takes another swig of his beer, and they both sit on the balcony watching the lights of Miami reflect off the ocean. "You're awfully quiet tonight, what's going on?"

"Nothing, really. Well, not nothing. But I'm not dodging accessory to murder, either. Might have to get my tux out of mothballs. Mike and Fi are getting married."

"Congratulations to them. This is good news."

He drinks. "Yep."

"You seem less than thrilled."

"Yeah."

"So, what's going on?"

"I don't know. I should be happy for them, right? They're happy. And it's not like I've been secretly hoping something will happen to Mike and I'll get a shot at Fi. They're my best friends, and they love each other, and they're getting married. Happens all the time, right?"

"Yes, it does. People all over the world get married every day. There are two weddings downstairs right now."

"I know. I pulled in right about the same time as one of the brides and her seventeen bridesmaids. That was more girly fluffiness than any man should ever be exposed to."

Elsa smiles at that. "Are you afraid of being exposed to large quantities of girliness?"

"I don't think so. I mean, come on, this is Fi. I'm sure the dress and shoes will set them back a bit, but I can't imagine her agonizing over place settings or flowers. Maddie might, but not Fi."

"Afraid Mike might end up getting girly..." she thinks about that for a second, it's not the right word, "tame, if they get married?"

Tame Mike is an image that refuses to form in Sam's mind. He shakes his head.

"So, what then?"

"I wish I knew, baby."

Elsa looks at him and kisses him gently. "The road not taken?"

He shrugs. "Maybe." And maybe it is. Or maybe it's the reminder that nothing lasts forever, and that even Peter Pan eventually grew up.

She caresses his cheek. "Still plenty of time to explore new roads."

He looks at her curiously. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'll just say I'm not categorically opposed to getting married again."

"Hmmm..." He smiles at her. "Good to know."


	13. Chapter 13

On the first day of the thirteenth week, Sam sat next to Mike at Carlito's and said, "I think I have some good news and some very good news for you." He hands Mike two pieces of a newspaper.

The first one is an in-depth report of a recent FBI anti-human trafficking raid, and how fifteen underage girls were rescued from their pimp. Tyrell James "Jaydd" Robinson was facing over one hundred charges relating to sex crimes, trafficking crimes, kidnapping, and since the youngest girl was twelve, aiding and abetting pedophilia. The report talked about how local law enforcement, the FBI, and unnamed "community activists" had collaborated to make this happen.

Sam smiles. "That got me off Harris' bad list. He's gotten enough bonus points from the higher ups on this that they're going to revist my Russian Spy problem."

"That's good, Sam." He folded the paper carefully, sure Fi will be happy to see it.

"Now, here's the better news, a buddy of mine sent me this."

Mike glances at it for a second, not understanding why Sam might think he'd want to see this. "An obituary from Seattle."

"The guy at the top right was one of my boot camp instructors. Check out the bottom left."

Michael stares at the picture for a long time, feeling his blood run cold. "Management."

"Yeah. Turns out he was a 'retired cop' in Seattle."

Michael just sits there, paper limply held between numb fingers.

"I took the liberty of looking into it. He was found by his wife, apparently had a heart attack. There was an actual body in the morgue, and he's been cremated. Unless this Crane guy is Managment's twin brother, he's really dead."

"Says here he was survived by two sons, a daughter-in-law, two grandsons, and his wife."

"Boggles the mind, doesn't it."

"Yeah." Mike shakes his head and gives the paper back to Sam. Management was the last loose only piece he never managed to hunt down. And he was just hiding in plain sight in Seattle, with a family.

Seven years of his life, finally done, all the pieces tied up, as nice and tidy as they could possibly get.

He's vaguely tempted to send a copy of this to Simon, just to know that someone else understands how utterly bizarre this feels. But if he does that, then someone will want to know why he's sending things to Simon, and that will reopen a can of worms he wants to keep not just sealed, but buried in concrete beneath the ocean floor.

Sam smiles at him, "It's really over, Mike."

Mike smiles back. "Yeah, I think it is. So besides good news, what else is going on?"

"Glad you asked, a buddy of mine..."

* * *

On Tuesday Fi said, "Let's go to the beach."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'm feeling pretty good today, and I want to get out of the house."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Michael, I'm sure. I want air and sunshine and to move around, and maybe get ice cream or something while we're out."

"You want to eat?" She'd started feeling better last week, but this was the first time he'd heard her say anything along the lines of actually wanting anything. And after almost six weeks of Fi not wanting anything, let alone food, Mike will happily go get her anything, including front row seats to a live gun battle, if it'll get her out of the house and pique her interest in something.

"I think so."

"Out we will go." Two minutes later he's in swim trunks, a short sleeve button down, and flip flops.

"Are you thinking food first, or right to the beach?" he asks as he packs a bag with towels and suntan lotion.

"Food, I'm feeling hungry."

"Good, it's been..." Michael's words trail off as Fi comes out of the bedroom in her bikini. It's not that Michael's been unaware of the fact that Fi's body has been changing. He has been aware, and appreciative of this fact, but he hasn't really seen it. Since morning sickness started, Fi's mostly been laying about in his pajama pants and loose t-shirts. So, while he's felt her body pressed against his as they've slept or the rare occasions they've made love, he hasn't really seen it in a while. He stares for a very long minute, eyes devouring the new gentle curves revealed by the swimsuit.

The primal part of his brain, one he was barely aware was back there, took in the sight of his woman with his child and started jumping up and down and shouting MINE. The result was a wash of raw sexual desire of the sort he hadn't felt since he was fourteen and laid eyes on Kelly Jamison sitting two rows ahead of him in algebra class, stretching in such a way that the sleeve of her shirt gaped open and he could see she wasn't wearing a bra.

The house could be on fire, surrounded by mercs, with every single one of his enemies risen from the dead and zombie-shuffling toward the door, and Fi would still be the only thing on his mind.

He swallows hard and says, "You need suntan lotion. And I should put it on you. Right now."

She grins at the way he's watching her. And then reaches up and strokes her neck, shoulder, and chest, fingers just skirting the fabric of the bikini top. "I can put my own sunblock on."

"No. Not this time." He grabs for the bottle without looking away from her and manages to knock it over.

She walks to him, stopping a few inches away. "Michael?"

"Yes?" He's staring at her breasts and tummy.

She reaches up and nudges his face so he's looking in her eyes. "Like what you see?"

"God, Fi, yes."

"Want to touch?"

"Even more."

"So skip the sunblock and touch me."

His fingers traced from her eyebrow to her hip, skimming over shoulder, breast, and belly on the way down. His lips follow, tracing her new curves.

An hour later, he does, happily, put sunblock on her, before she got back into her suit, and then they got ice cream and a swim.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, I know Nix said that they got Management and the reason they didn't use a pic of John Mahoney had to do with royalties and the like, but, well, I like the idea of Management being Martin Crane's secret life. ;) Happy Wednesday everyone!


	14. Chapter 14

Week Fourteen:

The good thing about Fi feeling better is that she's feeling better. She's up and about and moving around and the fear that Michael feels when he sees her lying around looking sick and uninterested in everything has vanished.

The bad thing about Fi feeling better, and being up and about and doing things is that she wants to be doing jobs, which has created an entirely new fear for Michael.

He's never relished the idea of Fi in danger. Granted his idea of 'in danger' is a few hundred degrees higher than anyone else's, but still, when his spidey-senses tingle about a job being a problem, he doesn't want her near it.

This generally does not lead to fun conversations between them, and he usually regrets trying to keep her away from the dangerous stuff, because as she's pointed out, by saving his ass, repeatedly, if there's danger to be had, he's much better off with her as back-up.

But this is different. There's the sensation he feels when she's in danger, and it's cold and horrible and he hates it, but this is... deeper, primal. It's his balls trying to crawl deep into his body and hide while ice shoots down his spine and his eyes want to close and escape from the truth of it. He doesn't think he's ever been scared motionless before, but, right now, while Fi hits the accelerator and they speed toward the Keys at close to 130 miles an hour, needing to get a site set before Sam gets there, he's awfully close.

The good thing about being scared motionless is that he's not going to distract her. Rationally, he knows she's a better driver than he is. Rationally, he knows they're safe. It's almost 2:00 in the morning, so there's no other traffic on the road. But he can feel the vibrations of the car, feel the light cross breeze off the ocean, and he's very aware they're on an extremely long bridge with no margin for error if anything goes wrong. It's dark, so he can't see the ocean next to them, but he knows it's there, cold and black, and waiting for the wind to pick up a little or for a bump in the road to hit the tire, or just something to go wrong.

Apparently he's sitting in the passenger seat, clutching the arm rests, with his eyes closed.

"Michael, are you okay?"

He might be scared stiff, but he's not scared stupid. Now is really not a good time to be arguing about keeping her out of danger.

"Fine, Fi."

"You don't look fine."

He manages a smile at her. "Fine, really."

"When did you become such a bad liar?"

"Could we maybe do this when you're not driving us at 130 miles an hour through the dark to go set up a fake drug smuggling operation for Sam?"

"Are you scared?"

"Do I sound scared?"

"Yes."

He forces his fingers to let go of the armrests. "I wish we had some real coke to sell this deal. Sam's gonna be in a lot of trouble if they notice all he's got to sell is fifty kilos of baking soda."

"If it gets to that point, we'll get him out, and move onto plan B."

"You've got a plan B?" This is better, talking tactics relaxes him, moves his focus.

"Bring in Jesse to play the coke dealer that's screwed Sam?"

"No. Chuck Finley's the sort of man who would have tested the coke before taking it... Bring in Jesse as the 'loyal' employee who's stealing from him?"

"Better yet, if they move to test it, we'll have a distraction ready to go, spring it on them, and they'll run. Do you think you can get something that'll sound like a fake DEA raid ready to go in the background?"

"Fi, just getting this set is going to be awfully close."

"Rival gang?"

He thinks about it as she downshifts and exits toward the warehouse they're heading to.

"I can get something that'll look like a rival gang set up."

* * *

Hours later, they're driving, sedately, him at the wheel, home from what was a successful "cocaine" buy, one that would soon cause Carlos Riveira's boss to become deeply unhappy about the fact that he just spent a million dollars on baking soda. That buy will, at best, get Carlos sent back to Venezuela, and at worst, killed, but either way he was no longer going to be stalking Sam's client, sending her dead doves.

"You want to tell me why you were upset?" Fi asks.

"Trying to pass off baking soda as cocaine is stressful."

"Really, Michael? Stressful?"

"It was."

"Uh huh." He always finds it vaguely disturbing when she responds to him the way his mom does. He just lets it lie, not saying anything, but he knows what she's expecting him to say next. She's got her 'cut the bullshit' look on her face, and at this point he can argue with her about being overprotective, or he can argue about lying, but either way, there's a fight coming up.

"You're pregnant."

"I had noticed that. The weeks of vomiting tipped me off." She's still giving him the keep talking look.

"Since Nate died, you in danger drives me crazy. You and our baby in danger makes it worse."

"You thought that was danger?" She can't believe he'd be worried about a job that easy. And he honestly feels a little stupid for it, now that the danger is passed.

"No. I didn't _think_ it was danger. But my brain doesn't appear to be giving the orders about what constitutes danger right now."

She smiles at him, which he wasn't expecting at all. "That's sweet."

"Really?"

"You concerned about us, yeah? As long as you can keep it under control and don't do anything stupid, it'll stay sweet. Get over-protective and try to keep me out of it, and it won't be sweet, then it'll be annoying."

"So, you're enjoying me sitting here, fearing for your life, and doing nothing about it?"

"Yes." She smiles brightly at him. "Remember back when you thought you might be getting back into the CIA and I told you that if you had to survive based on your understanding of relationships you'd be dead in ten seconds?"

"Sort of."

"It wasn't that I didn't want you working for the CIA, which I didn't, it was that I wanted you to pick me over the CIA. Same thing here, I want you to be concerned, but I want you to pick my happiness over your comfort."

"Okay..." Sometimes, life is a lot easier without women in it.

* * *

A/N: So, update time over here. I should have the last Grand Gestures chapter, until they start giving us new eppies, up on Christmas. And, though I'm not sure if this is kosher, I'm awfully excited about it. Today is the official grand revealing of my latest novel. So if you're at all curious as to my other stuff, Happily Ever After by Keryl Raist is now up on Amazon as an ebook and print book. Happy Saturday!


	15. Chapter 15

On Thursday of the fifteenth week, Ellen Muslen, who ran Anderson's adoption agency, looked at them as they entered her office and said, "So, tell me why you want to adopt."

"I'm sorry?" Fi asked.

Ellen looks startled, not expecting that answer. "You're Sarah and Abe Gunderson, right?"

"No. I'm Michael Westen and this is Fiona Glenanne. We're looking to put our child up for adoption."

"Oh. I'm so sorry." Ellen spent a long moment looking them over and then gestured for them to sit down while she looked through her files, found the right one, and skimmed over it. She nodded her head a few times as she looked over it and then looked up at them.

"Terribly, terribly sorry about that. I don't know why, but I've been thinking it's Friday all day. We don't get many couples, let alone..." She can't seem to find a polite way to say what she's thinking, so goes for blunt, "of your age or economic status on the birth parent side of the equation. So, tell me why you want to give your child up."

Neither of them answered for a moment, neither of them wanting to explain, let alone have to put words to this idea, and then Michael says, "It'd be better for everyone if we didn't keep this child."

"Uh huh." She flips through the file. "The information we have here says that you've kept up with your doctor's appointments and the child is healthy."

"From everything we can tell, yes," Fi answers. Getting the results of the nuchal fold test back last week and finding out the baby didn't have Downs Syndrome, Trisomy 13, or a host of other genetic abnormalities was very good news for both of them.

Ellen looks up at them again, seems to be studying them. Her eyes flick over their clothing, and settle on Fi's engagement ring. "Okay, let me be very blunt with you, we will not accept you as birth parents. Not for this agency."

"Excuse me?" Fi asks, though Michael is thinking it, too. He's never heard of anyone being turned down for trying to put a child up for adoption.

"That's a what, eight thousand dollar engagement ring? You're clearly in love. The address you have listed on the form is for a house that's in a pretty good school district. Your clothing is expensive, so you've got income. You've listed your job as security consultants, so you might be professional go-getters who can't stand the idea of taking time away from your business for a child, but the kind of person who fits that profile goes to an abortion clinic, not an adoption agency.

"I don't know why you are here, but I can tell you what I see when I look at you: two people who will change their minds. And I'm not about to allow you to get the hopes of my adoptive parents up just to crush them. Too many birth parents change their minds, and in Florida they can do that for up to two years after the birth of the child. Our agency does everything it can to make sure that when adoptive parents and birth parents agree to put an adoption in motion, it happens. So, in a word, no. We will not accept you as birth parents, you are too high of a risk."

For a moment Fi and Michael just sit there, too stunned to say anything. Then Michael begins to talk, "Fi worked for the IRA. I worked for the CIA. We both have enemies who wouldn't blink about using a child for revenge. This baby will be safer raised by someone else."

Ellen seems to consider this. She looks at both of them for a long time and then shakes her head again. "Most of the birth parents we get here are young, single women. They have boyfriends who couldn't care less about a baby, and parents who have the funds to deal with a pregnancy and career aspirations for their daughters. As they get older they'll go to school, build careers, eventually get married, and then have children later in life. They will be able to tell themselves that they couldn't possibly have raised the child they gave up, and knowing that they made the right decision will comfort them.

"We occasionally get couples. And without exception they are heartbroken by this. This is possibly the most traumatic decision a couple can make. It's bitter when a couple has to give up a child because they can't raise it. But once again, they'll take comfort in knowing they really couldn't raise a child.

"You two can raise a child; you're just scared. And maybe you're scared for good reason. But you want this child, and as day after day passes and nothing terrible happens, you'll regret giving it up. You will change your minds. As you get closer and closer to the birth, and this baby becomes more and more real, you'll decide it won't be that dangerous, and that you can cope with it, and you will change your minds. I'm not about to let that happen to any of my clients."

"But..." Fi begins.

"But nothing. Tons of people in this world have dangerous jobs and skeletons in their closets and manage to do a fine job of raising their kids. You will, too."

Michael and Fi stared at her, thunderstruck. "That's it?" Fi asked.

"That's it. Though I would counsel that you not try to find another agency to go through with this. All you'll be doing is breaking someone's heart."


	16. Chapter 16

On Friday of week sixteen, they went to a second adoption agency. This time, Michael didn't wear Armani. Fi dressed down, too, taking off her engagement ring, and though they both used their real names, they added thick southern accents.

By the time Michael was talking about having been laid off from his construction job three years earlier, and how he and Fi were the only support for his mother, who had dementia and tended to violent outbursts, the lady at this agency was very willing, eager practically, to sign them up as birth parents and let them start looking at prospective adoptive parents.

They spent seven hours looking at names and files and created a list of people they were deeply unenthusiastic about meeting.

Walking toward the Charger, appointments to meet with prospective adoptive parents set, Fi said, "Ellen might have been on to something."

"Of course she was. But that doesn't mean this is the wrong decision."

"I know. I just..."

"I know, Fi. Trust me, I know." And he does. He knows in his bones that given half a chance and any plausible excuse at all, he'll change his mind about this.

As he drives home, he thinks about the fact that apparently both Brennan and Management were able to keep families safe, despite very dangerous jobs.

But he also knows that he found, or at least guessed well, about Brennan's daughter, and if he could do it to Brennan, then someone else could do it to him.

And if someone can do it to him... That sends a chill through Michael. And that chill pierces through his desire to keep this child. Once upon a time, he was sure he was the smartest man in the room, that no matter the challenge, he was up to conquering it. Now, he knows better.

No, he doesn't want to meet with the couples they've picked out. No, he doesn't want to give this child away. But if this last year has taught him anything, it's that it doesn't matter how good he is, there's always someone better, someone coming from the angle he can't see, and all it takes is a few seconds to stop a heart.

And he knows, driving home with Fi, that he can give this child away. She can, too. It won't be easy. They won't like it. But they will survive, and go on, and know they did the right thing.

But if they keep this child and if something happens to it, it'll break him. It'll be the final trauma he won't be able to come back from. And he's awfully sure losing a child would destroy Fi, as well. So, no matter what Ellen may say, he's not going to change his mind, because he's sure he can't live with the consequences of changing his mind.


	17. Chapter 17

Monday evening, and Michael and Fi are out on Romantic Date Night: Part II.

After weeks of Fi not eating, Michael may be going a bit overboard on trying to feed her. They finished dinner, with dessert, over an hour ago, and he's trying to get her to have some frozen yogurt as they walk along South Beach.

"You do know I don't actually need four thousand calories a day," she says as she notices he's easing them in the direction of a frozen yogurt shop.

"Yes. But you do need 1,000 milligrams of calcium a day, and if you split one with me, you'll be at 1,200 for the day."

"You're keeping track of my calcium intake?" She looks horrified by that.

He smiles, looking slightly guilty. "Not usually. We ate all of our meals together today, so I noticed."

"Well, stop it. It's unnerving to know you're paying that close of attention to what I'm eating."

"Fine. No yogurt, then?"

"I didn't say that." Ten minutes later, they exit. He's got a small, plain tart yogurt with fresh blueberries. She's got a slightly larger chocolate with peanut butter sauce and Reese's Peanut Butter cup pieces.

They head for the sand. It's been almost a year since they've been to this beach, since the night after Nate died and Fi got free.

They sit there, watching the waves, feeling the sun on their backs as it creeps behind the Miami skyline. No sunset on this beach, but it's a good place for moonrise and watching the stars.

Michael realizes as he sits there, eating his yogurt, that he doesn't really remember that night. For example, he knows they had a blanket, but he can't remember where or how they got it. He knows they were on the beach but not why. He knows they talked, but he doesn't really remember what about.

He does remember the all-pervasive feeling of crushing loss, and the image of Nate dying below him. He remembers feeling happy, grateful Fi was there, and guilty for it.

He knows they spent a very long time staring at a black, star-free sky, her hand in his, and the sound of the waves and wind the only thing in his mind.

Fi brushes his cheek, bringing him back to now. "Where are you, Michael?"

"Remembering the last time we were here."

She gives him a small, half-sad smile. "I thought so. Do you want to leave?"

"No. If I avoid every place that makes me think of him, I'll never go anywhere."

"It's good to remember the ones we've lost. It helps—"

Michael never found out what that helped because Fi suddenly looked very startled and stopped speaking.

"What?"

"I just—" She stopped, grabbed his hand, and pressed it low on her belly. "Can you feel it?"

He wanted to feel it. Willed himself to feel something, and maybe he did. Possibly there was a very faint, tiny, almost fluttering under his palm. Or he could have imagined it. Either way, Fi was grinning hugely at him.

"She's moving."

Michael put down his yogurt, and scooted so he was sitting a bit behind Fi, her between his legs, and both palms resting against her stomach.

"You think it's a she?"

Fi leaned against his chest, her head on his shoulder. "I do right now."

Then it happened again, and he knew he felt it. There was an almost sliding sensation under his hand, followed by a fast fluttering. He has no idea what their child might be doing in there, but it certainly feels fast.

"Maybe she likes yogurt."

"Or chocolate."

He holds Fi and their baby close and knows that he's lost too many people over the last year, lost too much of who he had been. He feels that fluttering under his hand again, and tries to summon the certainty he had the week before that giving the baby up is the right thing to do, the only thing to do, the sane, rational, right thing.

And he can't find that part of himself anymore.

Michael kisses Fi's ear, sits on the beach with her, and wonders how to tell her he's changed his mind,wonders if she'll go along with it, and wonders if there is something greater than them that's put them here for this moment.

* * *

On Saturday of the seventeenth week, at dinner, Fi asks the others, "What are you all doing five weeks from today?"

Jesse and Sam seem to think about it.

Maddie says, "Nothing."

"I'm free," Jesse answers.

"Can't think of anything," Sam replies.

"Good." She smiles. "The church is free that afternoon, and the back room at The Forge is free, too. Feel like coming to our wedding?"

* * *

With the right frame of mind, wedding planning is pretty easy.

First of all, be the groom. Wedding planning is a breeze if you're the groom. Even if you have the sort of bride who wants you to pay attention and have opinions, it's fairly easy to fake that. Look alert, ask questions, and even if you couldn't care less about whatever it is, be decisive. Michael is good at all of these things. Sure, he's never going to care if the napkins are hunter green or teal, but as long as he picks a color quickly and keeps up eye contact, no one will know.

Not that he'll have to do that, though. Because the real secret to easy wedding planning is having a bride who doesn't much care about this stuff either.

Fiona's got wedding planning down as easy as possible. Get a dozen or so of your nearest and dearest. (Okay, half a dozen.) Find a restaurant they all like. Grab the back room and flash around extra cash for bar service and them to move some of the tables out of the way so there's room to dance. Voilà, a location is set.

Then go find whichever church has a priest who isn't doing anything that afternoon. Once again, planning a wedding with a half-dozen people means that if, say, there's no room in the church, it's not too hard to suggest the pretty garden in the back, and when any priest with a pulse will do, it's not hard to find one.

Generous donations to whichever charity the church runs don't hurt. (This is also helpful in case the church in question wants you to attend pre-marital counseling, though being visibly pregnant is a pretty good way to get that waved, as well. While it's true that Catholic Churches wants to encourage people to make good decisions about which spouse to choose, they also want mom and dad to be married, to each other, before the baby shows up.)

For music, grab a laptop and get one of your buddies with sound equipment to make sure it's got good speakers. Set the play list up days before the wedding and have it ready to go.

Let the restaurant take care of the tables, centerpieces, chairs, and linens.

You're already in the beautiful garden at the back of the church, so no need to decorate that. After all, there is such a thing as overkill, and trying to improve on the natural beauty of a space kept for the contemplation of the divine certainly qualifies as overkill.

This leaves getting a dress, some shoes, flowers, and some sort of outfit for the guys.

Mike, being in charge of the guys, pretty quickly decided that since this was an outdoor wedding in Miami early summer, going casual seemed like a good plan. Nary a tie nor tux will be allowed anywhere near this wedding.

Which pleases Fi because she's not finding anything in the way of particularly attractive formal wedding dresses for a lady in her shape.

Though both she and Maddie were quite taken with the one they did find. It's white, with a mid-thigh to knee length hem, a deep v neckline, and three quarter length sleeves.

All in all, it took six days of fairly lackluster effort, but by the end of it, they had a wedding ready to go.

At which point Michael found out there was one other job he was supposed to be in charge of. Lucky for him, Jesse mentioned it because it wasn't something he was even aware of on his own. But, apparently, the groom is in charge of honeymoon planning.

One of the few good things that came out of the last year is that he can once again travel. And he does remember there is somewhere Fi's mentioned going to about four times in the last few years. The downside is that it's awfully difficult to set up a trip to the Riviera without a credit card.

For the first time in years, as he's handing Jesse a wad of cash to book him a trip online, he's thinking that maybe getting a credit card might be a good idea. He adds it to the list of things to talk to Barry about. Supposedly the shell corporation they're setting up is coming along, and maybe it'd be a good idea for that corporation to have a few corporate cards.

Ten minutes later it's all set, and while it's true the concept of being married has been very real for him since he bought the rings, this is the first time the concept of wedding has been solidly in his mind. He's mildly surprised to see that it's a good feeling, after all, it's not like parties are really his thing, but this party, he's looking forward to.


	18. Chapter 18

During the eighteenth week, they met with seven couples interested in adopting their baby and turned them all down. None of them were right.

It worked out pretty well for Michael. He never had to voice his doubts about putting the baby up for adoption. He didn't have to admit that he changed his mind, and that exactly what Ellen said would happen had happened. He didn't even have to voice his doubts about the couples they met. Fi shot them all down, and he just tried not to agree too enthusiastically.

After saying no to the seventh couple, Fi and Michael got some take out and went home.

"None of them are ever going to be good enough," Fi says as she chews a bite of her fish taco.

"I know." After the beach, he promised himself he'd at least meet the potential adoptive parents. Maybe, if he could put a face and name to the idea of a different family for the baby, he could get back to the idea of it being right. Because he knows, in the hard, rational part of his mind, that giving the baby up is safer, but safer or not, he just doesn't care. He sat there and watched people, perfectly safe, normal, fine people talk about how much they'd love to provide a perfect 1950s-Hollywood-fantasy family for their child, and he couldn't make himself say yes to any of them. "We can move. Start over, new life, new city, new names."

"Fake our deaths?"

Michael perks up a little. "That's got potential. Big car accident, lots of fire, and then vanish."

"Shoot some bullets into the car, spatter some blood around, Jesse and I have done that before. It's not too hard."

"I'd prefer all of your blood stay inside you right now."

"I'd prefer all of my blood stay inside me all the time, but if you've got to sell a dead person when you've got no body, you need blood, with the right DNA."

"I know." Michael takes a bite of his taco, not really tasting it, just chewing to keep himself fed. "How are we set for cash, if we're going to do this?"

"I've got enough tucked away in a few different names, untraceable to me, to set us up comfortably, but not much more than that. Call it a year of savings." Mike thinks about that. For him, a year of savings could be as low as ten thousand dollars, as long as he's got one decent suit and a pair of shoes, he's good to go. But he knows Fi prefers a higher standard of living than he does.

"I can shift some of mine around, but most of it'll have to get left."

That stops both of them dead. Normally they aren't the kind of people who worry about that. Both of them are pretty good at squirreling money away, but when you fake your death, if you want it to stick, to look like you really died, especially if there's no body, most, if not all, of your assets get left behind. Enough to set them up comfortably is one thing, but a baby on the way means big expenses coming soon and lasting for the next twenty years.

Likewise, the jobs they're both best suited to do require a web of trust and people who know you. Fake your own death, and suddenly that web of job referrals vanishes, making it that much harder to make new money.

The stupid thing is they've got enough to retire, comfortably, if they stay alive. Michael did finally get his assets unfrozen, and Barry moved them outside of any banking system that would work with US authorities less than ten minutes later. Six years of compound interest worked out pretty handsomely. So, he's got money.

But it's still in his name. If they "die," they've got to leave it behind, which means they'll need to work, and the kind of work you can get when you know no one and have no reputation is very dangerous and pays lousy.

Catch-22. Stay "alive" and be a target. "Die" and end up a target all over again trying to get enough work to keep living.

He shakes his head. "Five years from now, we can fake our death. That's enough time to hide the assets slowly. For now we'd be better off on the run. New town, new name, have Barry keep a trace on all of our information so that if anyone tries to use it to track us, we'll get a heads up. We'll still have our money. If we do it right, we'd even get to come back here on occasion, see everyone."

"I'd like that. Your mom would, too."

"Yeah, she would. And Sam would miss us if we completely vanished." Michael puts his food down and takes her hands. "We're going to do this, keep the baby and run?"

She half-smiles, half-cries a little, "Yes."

"Then I guess we're going to need a name."


	19. Chapter 19

Week Nineteen:

"Sean's coming for the wedding," Fiona says while brushing her teeth. It's Saturday night, and they're getting ready for bed.

"That's good." Michael says, stepping out of the shower.

Of all of Fi's family, and yes, he met most of them during the years he was in Ireland, Sean's the one he likes the most, gets along with best. Sure there's the whole saving each other's lives things, but when it came down to it, even before bullets and bombs and the glorious cause, he just liked Sean. Sean has that same devil-may-care attitude Fi does, and while it's annoying on ops, it can also be a lot of fun.

As Sam said, "How many times do you have to touch the flame before you'll know it burns?" Well, Sean's the same sort of fire Fi is, and Michael likes that sort of fire. Sometimes, deep down, he wishes he could just be all fire. It seems a whole lot easier, more restful.

"My mom wants to, too."

He stops toweling off. Michael supposes it shouldn't be a surprise that Katherine Glenanne might want to come to her daughter's wedding. "Okay," he says, thinking that's a somewhat less welcome addition to the guest list.

"Okay?" Fi's a little surprised to hear that. It's not that her mom didn't get on well with Michael when he was in Ireland; it's just that since the whole leaving thing, she's loathed him and hasn't made much of a secret of that fact. Finding out why he left, when Sean got home again, didn't do anything to make that better. Fi generally thinks it's a good thing her mom's been a on the other side of the Atlantic this whole time, because she's very aware of Michael's flaws, and is not his biggest fan by any stretch of anyone's imagination.

"Do you want her there?" he asks.

"Yes." And she does. She's sure this is going to be awkward, to say the least, but especially since she's been pregnant, she's wanted her mom nearby.

"Then it's okay. I'm not going to tell you your mom can't come to our wedding."

"It just might be a little tense." Fi sits on the edge of the tub, facing Michael, who's leaning against the sink, toothbrush in hand.

"You mean having the woman who, after all five of your brothers had a wee chat with me about how, if I hurt you, they'd kill me so dead I'd come out the other side alive again and then they'd do it all over, said to me that I had nothing to fear from her lads; they'd never get to me in time, because she'd hunt me down, cut my balls off, and choke me with them if I got her good Catholic girl pregnant without a wedding band on her hand, might be tense."

"She said that to you?" Fi looks stunned at that idea.

"First time you brought me home. You were in the kitchen helping Thomas and Pat's wives with the washing up. She pulled me aside, took a long drink of her whiskey and said, 'There's a proper order for the doin' of these things, and if you think you can get to the fuckin' without puttin' a wedding ring on my daughter's finger, you're sorely mistaken.' And then proceeded with a very detailed description of what was going to happen to me if I did not heed her words."

Fi grins, laughing a little at the idea of her mother staring up at Michael, cussin' him out properly. "What did you say to that?"

"I think I blushed." He slips into his Irish accent, leans forward, and whispers into her ear, "If ya remember, that was about six months _after_ the fuckin' had started."

She laughs. "It was my Da's line. He said that to all of my boyfriends while he was alive, usually while sharpening his hunting knife."

"Did it work?"

She looks at her bulging stomach. "Apparently not." She places her fingers on their child, feeling it squirm and kick. "I haven't told them I'm pregnant."

Michael closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them slowly, while sitting on the edge of the tub next to her. Telling his mom was one thing. Telling her family, who had already promised numerous levels of extreme bodily harm in the event of this, was another thing all together. Not that he thinks they're going to physically hurt him, much. Still, he doesn't enjoy spending time with people who are pissed off at him. On the upside, they live on the other side of the planet and won't spend all that long in Miami.

"Fi—"

"The last time I talked to them we hadn't decided if we were keeping him or not. And I didn't want to tell them if we weren't keeping him."

Michael understands that. He would have happily not told his family either. But the whole living-less-than-half-an-hour-away-thing made sure that was impossible.

"And now we're keeping him, and it didn't seem like something to tell them over the phone."

"Because in person, picking them up at the airport, shocking them with this," his hand caresses over her very visible tummy, "is going to be that much easier."

"Think of it this way, if we get them before they get their luggage, they won't be armed."

"Your bother carries a ceramic knife when he travels commercial."

Fi winces. "Forgot about that. Maybe he won't get it through the sensors."

Michael thinks about that. Those full body sensors might be the end of... "He'll have a garrote, at least."

"Yes, but he's coming for our wedding, so he probably won't be too interested in making me a widow. Just, wear a cup when we get them."

"Great." He stands up and brushes his teeth, headings into the bedroom, finding a pair of his pajama pants a moment later. "Any new name ideas?" he asks as he sits on the bed putting his pajama pants on.

"How about Dan?" Fi says as she pulls back the sheets and slides into their bed. She fluffs a pillow and settles down on her side.

"You're thinking it's a boy today?"

"Today. Maybe not tomorrow, but today I'm thinking of a son. A little boy with your eyes and build, but my smile."

Michael grins at that idea and lies down beside her, resting his hand on her tummy. "Isn't one of your cousins named Dan?"

"Good memory. He was my favorite when we were little."

"Dan... I like Dan."

"Daniel Westen. That sounds good."

Michael thinks about Dan as a name for a moment. "Who in your family thought Dan Glenanne was a good name?"

Fi gives him an exasperated look. "No one. Dan McKiernan. He's my mum's nephew. No one in my family is so tone deaf as to name a child Dan Glenanne."

Michael thinks about that for a moment, too. "I was hoping, if it's a boy, to use Nathaniel as a middle name."

Fi nods; she's been expecting that. "And you don't think Daniel Nathaniel works?"

"Not really."

"So, not Dan then."

"Not Sam, either."

"Not a good idea anyway, we'd never hear the end of it if both Westen boys ended up named after him." Michael looks momentarily confused. "You didn't know that was the reason behind Charlie?"

"No. I didn't even think about it until now. For Sam, really?"

"Really."

He shakes his head. He didn't know Sam and Nate were even that close. He wonders if Sam knows, but judging by Fi's comment, he must.

He thinks that's something he'd have liked to talk to Nate about. Thinks all of this is something he would have liked to have talked to Nate about. Not that they really would have talked, more like sat near each other and worked on something, like the Charger, or with this new house, furniture. But at least a few words would have gone by, mostly Nate's, and he finds himself wondering what Nate would have had to say about this.

He guesses Nate would have been mostly smugly pleased, amused to see Mike not knowing what to do next. He absolutely knows Nate would have laughed at the idea of Mike having a huge collection of angry in-laws.

He tries to smile, to conjure up Nate's amusement, and feel it for himself.

And it works, a little.


	20. Chapter 20

Week Twenty

It turns out there are some things pregnant ladies are really, really good at.

Watching someone. No one expects the pregnant lady to be a tail.

Smuggling things. You can fit an awful lot of goodies in a few bags from Babies 'R' Us and no one bothers to search them.

Blending into the background. Even though a beautiful pregnant woman will certainly attract a lot of attention, it's not the sort of attention that thinks, "Gosh, I need to be careful about this."

The downside of using a pregnant lady on certain ops, is that the pregnant lady's husband-to-be turns into a quivering nerve ready to leap up and destroy anything that might get too close to said lady or baby.

"Mike, if you don't calm down, you are going to blow this. She's fine, brother." Sam says from his perch on the roof of the nearest high rise, sniper rifle at the ready.

"I can't see her, Sam."

"Yes, but I can, Jesse can, and if you keep acting like you're doing anything other than reading the paper and getting a coffee Shannon will sense that something is up. So keep calm, let her do her thing, and in an hour we'll have Shannon tied up in knots."

Shannon was the end of a long and messy con-job gone awry. Fi had been trailing her through the mall, waiting to plant certain stolen goods on her, goods that had previously belonged to Shannon's boss, and if everything went well, that boss would soon be meeting Mike to learn about who was skimming profits off of his organization.

Fi got closer and closer, and then, a few steps in front of Shannon, seemed to trip and drop her bags. Shannon almost tripped over her, and in the confusion Fi was able to swap out the contents of one of her bags for Shannon's. Fifteen thousand dollars of "missing" cash changed hands.

"She's done, Mike. Jesse's got her, and Clayton is on the way."

Mike smiled, put his game face on, and sipped his coffee. Time to take care of Shannon.

* * *

Two days later, sitting in the half-lit ultrasound room at the OB's office, Michael is a lot more calm. Excited, definitely, but there's no edge of fear here.

Today, assuming Baby Westen is in an accommodating mood, they'll find out if it's a girl or boy.

This time, because Fi's far enough along, and because they've done this before, there's no sense of weirdness because of what the Tech is doing to Fi.

No, today there's just excitement at seeing lines resolve themselves into images, feet, hands, a head, a face and...

"Is it a boy?" Fiona asks.

The tech, Judy maybe, her name is something like that, smiles. "No, that's the umbilical cord." She moves the wand around a bit, and finally says, "I don't see any testicles. That's a little girl."

Until that moment, Michael had been doing a very good job of not desiring any particular type of child. Until they had decided to keep her, he had done everything he could to not imagine what it may have been, but at that moment he decided a daughter was exactly what he wanted, what he had always wanted, and that it was likely he's never going to want something else the way he wants this.

It's a good feeling.

He kisses Fi's temple, and wonders if she's thinking the same thing, because he notices there are tears in her eyes and she's smiling beautifully as she looks at their little girl.

* * *

When they got to his Mom's house, she was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at brochures for more adoption agencies.

"I think you might have some luck with this one." She holds up a tri-fold with an image of a smiling baby on the front.

Fi sits down next to Maddie, and Michael takes his mom's hands, crouching in front of her.

"We're keeping her, Ma."

For a second his mother's face is blank, like she almost can't believe she's heard Michael say that, then tears start, and she's kissing Mike, after a second she pulls back, wipes her eyes, smearing mascara and eyeliner all over the place, and says, "Thank God you two came to your senses!" She leans over, hugs Fi, kissing her as well.

Then Maddie grabs her lighter and the brochure, sets it on fire, grinning the whole time, takes the smoking, flaming paper, and sets it in the sink.

She's beaming at them as tendrils of smoke waft about her.

"Wait, did you say "her?" You had a doctor's appointment today, right?"

"Yes. It's a girl, Maddie." Fi's beaming her own high watt smile at Maddie.

Maddie takes a deep breath, and then starts to giggle. "Oh, a little girl. I can't wait to see Michael deal with that." She breaks into full-on laughing.

"You know I'm right here, right?" Mike says.

Ignoring Mike, talking to Fi, Madeline says, "I can just imagine how terrified her poor first boyfriend is going to be." Fi breaks into a grin at that idea.

"Or Sam..." Maddie holds her hand to her mouth to stifle the giggles. "He's going to go into insane Grandpa mode and spoil that little girl rotten."

Madeline pulls both of them close and hugs them again. The manic laughter fades away, and for a long time she just holds them close.

Finally, she kisses them both again and says, "Thank you."


	21. Chapter 21

When Michael first met Fi, he was awash in instantaneous lust and attraction. He might have even called it love, back in the day. Knowing how he feels about Fi now, he'd call it lust, though that isn't quite the right word, either. He doesn't have a good word for it. It was different than anything he had ever felt for any woman before, and vastly different from anything he's felt for anyone, since.

He was thirty when they met, so it's not like he was some teenager who had never seen a girl before. He'd been 'round this particular block a few times, and had certainly thought he'd been in love before. If nothing else, the fact that he had a fiancée back in St. Petersburg should have been a hint that he thought he knew what love was.

He didn't. Not then. Not after he met Fi. Not when he shot Strickler, though he certainly thought that was love. Not until over fourteen years later when he saw how much she loved him, saw her walk into FBI custody for him, and realized he was no less devoted to her, and that no matter what, he would spend the rest of his life proving that devotion.

But he did know that whatever that feeling that spread through him like the blood in his veins or the electrical impulses along his nerves the first time they met was, it wasn't the safe, rational, exuberant sensation other women had filled him with. What he had with Fi didn't make sense. It broke all the rules he'd been trained in and lived by, and he relished every moment of it until Card dragged him out of Ireland.

During that time, while he and Fi were wrecking mayhem through Northern Ireland and Europe, the idea that she had a family wasn't something terribly solid in his mind. She was so uniquely her own, the idea that other people may have shaped her didn't intrude in his mind. She was so wild, so devil-may-care, the idea that there were people she was bound to, people who would miss her if she didn't show, who she would miss if they vanished, never occurred to him.

Sure, he knew she had brothers, he met her through them, but parents, nephews and nieces, and sisters-in-law were all concepts that he hadn't bothered to think much about.

Until, about nine months after they had met, she invited him home for Sunday dinner.

Which was when he met Katherine Glenanne for the first time.

A bit over fifteen years later, and she hasn't changed much. She's still short, slim, and proud, though auburn-streaked white hair had gone completely white during the intervening years. It occurs to him that she has to be at least seventy, if not seventy-five, but she doesn't look that old.

He catches sight of her and Sean before she sees them, before Fi does. He nudges her, leading her attention toward the baggage claim area of Miami International. Fi nods, squeezes his hand, and they begin walking toward her mother and older brother.

Sean sees them, and breaks into a grin. Katherine begins to smile, too, as she sees Fi. They move more quickly, and soon there are hugs, and sooner yet, post-hug pulling away in shock.

Sean is grinning, which makes Michael a lot more comfortable. He wasn't looking forward to fighting the man.

"Did I not tell ya, Ma?"

"And so you did. I was still hopin' you were wrong. Well then, when is the little one due?"

"End of August," Fi says to her mother, and then turns toward Sean. "And what do you mean, 'Did I not tell ya?'"

"Please, Fi, it's been sixteen years since you two met, and now you're suddenly gettin' married less than two months after you get engaged? Of course there's a baby on the way!" He pets her stomach affectionately. "I was thinkin' you wouldn't be quite so far along. Been teasin' Ma about it for three weeks now."

"It would have been nice to have had at least one of ya married for more than a year before the first baby showed up."

"Still might happen, Ma, Allan and I aren't married, yet."

"And knowin' you two, ya never will be."

"Now that's just harsh, Ma. Allan's right sweet on Kelly Anne, and rumor has it he'll be askin' her a serious question 'round about her birthday." Maybe to change the subject, or maybe because it seemed rude not to say anything directly to him, Sean said, "So, Michael, how are you?"

"I'm well, Sean. Thanks. Good trip?"

"Lovely. You'll have to thank whichever friend it was that got me that fake passport. Got straight through security with no problems."

"Good, Sam will be glad to know it worked."

"Sam did that for me?"

"Yes."

"I told you about Sam, right Ma?"

"A few times. He's one of Fi's marvelous Yank friends. I didn't know he did documents."

"He can and does, but not too often," Fi answered. For a moment they all stood there quietly. It occurs to Michael that Katherine hasn't said anything to him yet, and that they're all just standing there in the airport.

"Let me go get your luggage. Then we'll take you to my mom's house." He heard Fi explaining to her mom and brother about why they weren't going to be staying at their place. Not only is the guest room not ready for anything besides wiring explosives, but they've decided not to do anything more with the place. The rent is paid up for the next two months, and after that...

They haven't decided where they're going after that, but somewhere far away from Miami.

The drive to his mother's house feels oddly relaxed and tense. Sean is chattering away with both him and Fi, but Katherine is very quiet. It could be she's tired. Belfast to London to New York to Miami isn't a quick trip, and at her age it must seem even longer. It could be the fact that it was in the high fifties and drizzling when she left, and that was a fairly warm day, and now she's way overdressed for topical Miami.

But mostly Michael can feel the weight of the words Katherine Glenanne isn't saying to him. Words she's been waiting to say to him for years, at least six of them probably, and he's not looking forward to that.

He pulls in and leads them into the house where he grew up. Sam and his Mom are waiting to meet the Glenannes.

Sean sees them and lights up. "Ma, this is Madeline Westen and Sam Axe, and the only reason I'm still here, breathin', is because these two pulled two bullets out of me, and then Ms. Madeline let me recover in her home," Sean says as he sweeps Maddie into a warm hug, then shakes Sam's hand.

Madeline's greetings are warm, effusive, and for the first time Michael sees a real smile of pleasure on Katherine's face. Maddie bustles her off a few minutes later, saying something about how she must be so hot in all that clothing, and getting changed into something more comfortable.

* * *

"Is this your first grandchild?" Katherine asks as Madeline shows her to the room she'll be staying in. Once upon a time it was Michael's, but it's been completely redone since those days.

"No, Charlie, Michael's brother's son, is almost two now. You?"

"Seventeen, counting this one."

"Seventeen?" Maddie says, in disbelief.

Katherine takes it at surprise that there are so few of them, though Madeline meant it in response to how many there were. "Normally there'd be more for a family our size, but Sean and Allan haven't married, yet."

"How many children do you have?" Fi doesn't talk much about her family, and it occurs to Madeline she has no idea how many brothers and sisters Fi might have.

"Has Fi not told you she's one of seven?"

"Seven?" The idea of Fi amid that many brothers and sisters staggers Maddie.

"Five boys, two girls."

"I didn't know Fi has a sister."

"Had. Our Claire died back in '85."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"So were we. But that's long past and too dark a topic for a happy day. Will we be meeting your grandson and other son?"

"No. Nate, my son, died last year. Charlie lives with his mother in Las Vegas."

"I'm sorry. That's the dark part of a hard road. I can tell you it gets better, but I know you won't want to be hearin' that yet."

"No, not yet. But thank you. So, tell me about your grandchildren..."

* * *

A while later, as he tends the steaks on the grill, Michael hears, "And I get off the plane, lookin' for Fi, and there they are, bold as brass and pregnant to boot! She hadn't said anything to any of us about it. Just, 'We're gettin' married, come to Miami, you'll enjoy the sun.'"

"I swear you could call those two 'Need to know only', I've been with them six years, hiding clients, letting them interrogate suspects in my garage. I went on the run with them when things went crazy last fall." Madeline gestures to the sun room, "That's where your son recuperated after I helped Sam pull a bullet out of him, but do they tell me anything? Not if they can possibly avoid it!"

"I'd be knowin' all about that. 'Protectin' me!' Like I didn't meet their father helpin' to smuggle explosives past the English! You'd think that one," she pointed at Sean, "invented explosives with the way he'd try to hide what they were doin' from me. Or that one, and the way she was always 'headin' off to Church.' Headin' off to political meetin's was more like it. And I was just supposed to sit there and knit and smile about it."

The term, 'getting on like a house on fire' occurs to Michael as he watches his mom and Fiona's commiserate about dealing with children like them. It also occurs to him how good it would be for his mom to have someone closer to her age, someone who had shared some of the same experiences, how she could really use a friend.

"Michael?" His mom calls out.

"Yeah, Ma?"

"How long 'til supper's ready?"

He pokes one of the steaks. "They're ready to come off now, so ten-twelve minutes before we can eat them."

"Good, I'll get the table set."

* * *

Hours later, after dinner, after dessert, after stories of Ireland, many of which Sam, Jesse, and his mother had never heard or imagined hearing, Katherine says, "Michael, come talk with me." He's been dreading an alone conversation with Fiona's mom, but it's inevitable.

He follows her outside to the back porch.

"So what sort of name is Westen?" she says as she inhales on a cigarette, yet another similarity with Madeline.

"American."

"Don't give me that. All of you Americans are from somewhere else, originally."

"I was born here, in Miami. This is the house I grew up in. You're staying in what used to be my room." The look she's pointing at him is very eloquently stating that he's not answered her question. "English."

"Mary, Mother of Jesus, a half-English grandbaby."

"Half-American. I was born here, my father was born in Tallahassee, his father was from Atlanta, and his father, as well. Before that I'm sketchy on the details, but I do remember my grandfather talking about his grandfather fighting in 'The War of Northern Aggression.'" He realizes that means nothing to Katherine. "The 1860s. My mother was born here. Her parents moved south from New York during the Depression." Another blank look. "The early '30s. We've been here long enough no one remembers the story of how we got here. We're Americans."

Katherine seems to think about that for a moment. Of course, everyone else in her family is not only Irish, but Irish so far back that the idea that they may have ever come from anywhere else is utterly alien. He's not sure if him being a Yank is something Katherine likes about him or holds against him.

She stares at him for another long moment before saying, "Fiona loves you, and you're the father of my granddaughter, so I will never treat you with anything but respect, but I want you to know that when I look at you, I see the man who looked me in the eye and lied to me about a murdered sister, a hatred of the English, and a life-long devotion to the cause. You sat in my home, drank my ale, ate my food, enjoyed my company, and lied to me about everything in your life. I will never forget that, and though I will never do anything to make your child think less of you, I will also never trust you."

Michael took a deep breath and said, "Fair enough."

"You never had a sister." It's the statement that gets to the heart of their relationship. That was his planned in with the Glenannes. If any family would be moved by an orphan with a taste for revenge based on a murdered sister, they'd be it.

"No sister. Just a brother, and he died last year."

"Your mum mentioned that." She's staring up at him, and he's got a clue as to what she's expecting from him.

"The first time I got to Ireland was three months before I met Pat and Sean. I was sent there to make contacts in the IRA and divert members who were passionately interested in making sure the war didn't end to other ends." The CIA had picked the Glenanne lads because they weren't major targets, but ran with men who were.

"Other ends?"

"Some of them ended up as CIA or MI5 assets. Some of them ended up dead. Some of them vanished into the Middle East or Colombia. If Ireland was going to calm down, the biggest troublemakers had to get out, so I helped to get them out.

"I'm not from Kilkenny. I've only been there twice, the first time to memorize as much of the place as I could, the second with Fi when I was showing her what was supposed to be my hometown." They'd done that up right. He even had three "locals" recognize him, and talk about his past and family.

"I was never part of the Royal Welch Fusiliers." His military background had to come from somewhere, so the Brits were willing to dummy up a service record for him, fairly similar to what he really had done, just for them, and ending with a dishonorable discharge for suspected sabotage. "I didn't join up with them to learn their tactics and use them against them. I wasn't ever a mercenary." Supposedly, after being booted by the Brits, he had vanished into South America as a merc, and from there to Afghanistan, and from there all over the world. He came back to Ireland and the IRA after his "sister" was killed.

"I was in Afghanistan in the '80s. And a lot of other places, though mostly Russia. I've never worked demolitions, though I was an explosives expert for the US Army Rangers. I've never been a professional safe-cracker, though I've certainly done enough of it to fake it.

"I was with the Rangers until 1987. Then with the CIA until 2006. Freelancing, for lack of a better word, since then.

"I am a patriot, just not an Irish one.

"And I never lied to you about loving your daughter."

"You left her all the same."

"I did. And I've been lucky enough that she forgave me that."

"And how do I know you're stayin' now?"

Given what she knows about him, that's not a bad question. He thinks of a lot of different answers and discards them. 'You don't, but she does,' probably isn't going to do the job here.

"This time, I put the ring on her finger. And five days from now, I'll stand up before you, her, my mother, your son, all of our friends, our child, a priest, and God, and promise to be here for the rest of her life."

Katherine nods. That answer might not kill her fears, but she's a fair woman at heart, and knows that's as good as it's going to get.


	22. Chapter 22

Week twenty-two

"Mike!" Sam sounds panicked, and he can hear cars bustling by on the other end of the phone.

"Yeah, Sam."

"We've got trouble. You've got to get here, fast." Mike's at home, debating what to do for dinner. He slams shut the fridge.

"Okay, tell me what's going on. Where are you?"

"I'll text the address. Just get here fast."

"Should I bring Fi?"

"No! Just get here."

A second later an address is on his phone, and he's sprinting to the car, while tucking a gun under his belt. He doesn't know the address, but the GPS takes care of that. It's non-descript part of town, a mix of shops and small businesses. Sam and Jesse aren't even supposed to be on a job right now. The wedding is tomorrow. They're supposed to be out with Sean tonight.

What the hell could be happening? God, did someone recognize Sean? He's on half a dozen government watch lists.

He's driving like a maniac, white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He skids to a stop in front of Jesse, Sam, and Sean, and they're all grinning at him like dopes.

He pries his fingers off the steering wheel, forcing his heart to stop pounding, recognizing that this cannot be bad.

"So, what's this emergency?" he says through gritted teeth as he gets out of the Charger.

Jesse grins even wider. "Can't have a bachelor party without the groom."

"Come on, Mikey, it's not like we can let you get married tomorrow without a proper send off."

"Let him breathe, lads. He's just had a bit of a scare. He made it here in nine minutes; that's some awfully fast drivin'."

It occurs to him that as he was sprinting out of the house, Fi didn't ask him any questions or offer back up.

"Fi knows about this?"

Sam smiles again. "Of course. And I don't even want to think about what she's doing with your mom tonight. Our instructions were to show you a good time, and make sure you got to the wedding on time and fairly sober tomorrow."

Sam hands him a beer, seemingly conjured from nowhere.

Sean looks down the street and sees headlights coming toward them. "And the drunken debauchery begins."

A limo stops in front of them. Sean opens the door and Sam and Jesse shove Mike, shaking his head, inside.

* * *

The dress actually was white. But Fi likes white dresses, so the fact she'd pick one for her wedding wasn't exactly a shock to anyone involved.

The suit wasn't black. Michael doesn't have a black suit anymore, and his charcoal one was last worn to Nate's funeral. Michael didn't want to put on his charcoal suit, either. It reminded him of funerals, and this wasn't a funeral sort of day. So the groom wore dove gray.

He's surprised by how much he misses Nate today. When he found out Nate was married, he hadn't felt any sense of loss from not being there for that. Mostly he'd just felt a sense of exasperation that Nate had made yet another bad choice.

But today he feels the lack of Nate very sharply, and the sense that he should be here, with Sam and Jesse, has a powerful grounding effect.

Michael's not nervous. This is the right thing, at the right time, and so no, there are no jitters, no sense of a door slamming shut on something, or a desire to flee. There's calm, and joy, and anticipation, because he is looking forward to seeing Fi, and sorrow, because there should be another man standing next to him, a man who will never be here again, and that loss can't be glossed over.

He guesses that means today is a fitting microcosm of all of life. Joy, pain, excitement, and as he stands there waiting, a bit of boredom. He guesses that's appropriate for a rite designed to celebrate two lives becoming one.

They weren't actually in the church, though they are in the garden behind it. He waits underneath the trees, sunlight dappling about and a warm breeze whispering through the flowers. Sam and Jesse are with him, and a tiny collection of friends sit on a few stone benches beside them. Michael thinks about all the ways this could have happened, and decides that here, with a few of their friends, and the family they've built since coming to Miami, is exactly how it should be.

Fiona walks in with his mom and her brother escorting her, and the half-dozen friends stand up for her.

He thinks about how beautiful she is. How the dress seems to slip and shift along luscious curves, and her hair cascades down her shoulders and back. It's not a terribly original thought for a groom, but it's deeply sincere.

He thinks about how, though he was engaged before, that Fi is the only woman he ever imagined standing in front of a priest saying the, 'Til death do us part,' to.

Fi joins him, holds his hands, and the priest begins to speak.

They didn't write their own vows, because what words could possibly hold up to the actions of their past? They are bound by death, blood, fire, love, and now, a new life. That's all there, and always will be, and no words can sum that up, tie it in a tidy bow, or give it completion or meaning.

So Michael parrots the priest's words; words worn old by thousands of repetitions, and made new by the addition of his voice and Fi's. He slips the ring on her finger as she does his, motions, like the words, older than either of them, yet new because this is the first, only, time either of them has done it. And the kiss that follows is not new, even if it is their first kiss as husband and wife, but it is tender, and filled with history and respect, and love, and a promise of a future that will go on for as long as both of them draw breath.

* * *

Fi and Mike are dancing. So are Sam and Elsa. Ricky's dancing with his wife. Even Barry has a girlfriend.

Jesse's at the bar, a scotch neat in front of him, and no girl anywhere nearby.

Sean Glenanne sits next to him. "You look like a man who could use a drink."

Jesse holds up his still three quarters filled glass.

"Not a drink then. So, what's wrong?"

"Trying to remember what," he gestures with his glass to Mike and Fi, and the way Mike has one hand cupped around Fi's face, the other on her belly, as they sway to the music, "that felt like."

"Been a while since you've had a girlfriend?"

"That's putting it mildly. I had a friend I was working with, thinking I might ask her out, but she got re-assigned and shot that to hell."

"Reassigned? You can travel, what's the problem?"

"To Pakistan."

"That's a problem."

"Yeah. What about you? A Mrs. Glenanne at home?"

"Only my mum. This line of work, not too many women around."

"I get that. We used to joke about women in CIFA being ghosts, sure everyone knows someone who's seen one, but they're never around."

"Where I'm from, the women almost never get involved. Mostly they stay on the edges, providing some support and blind eyes when needed. I wonder sometimes, what would have happened to Fi if Claire had lived. I wonder if she would have ended up like my mum and all the other IRA girlfriends, married at seventeen or twenty, with a pile of kids by the time they hit middle age."

"I have a hard time imagining Fi like that."

"Now-a-days, I do, too. But before, she was our Fiona, and it was our job to keep the footballers and hooligans away."

"And after?"

Sean shook his head. "Pat and I met this bloke at a bar. He was from Kilkenny and had a rep for safe cracking and demolition. We took him to meet her, because she was better than either of us at that, and she'd tell us if he was as good as he said he was."

"Was he?"

"Apparently. Sixteen years later, he's my brother-in-law."

"Does that mean you failed or succeeded when it came to looking out for your sister?"

Sean smiles. "Buggered if I know. They look happy, don't they?"

"Yeah, they do."

* * *

A/N: I've got a shot of Fi in her wedding dress (obviously not pregnant) up on the blog.

charactersaremyheroin dot blogspot dot com /2013 /01 /38-weeks-twenty-second-week dot html

You know what to do to make that work. ;)


	23. Chapter 23

During the twenty-third week, as they met for lunch on Monday, Sam said to Jesse, "Want to go on a road trip with me?"

"Road trip? You mean you and me driving across the country having wild adventures, picking up hot babes, and constantly dousing ourselves in beer?"

"Not exactly, though I'm always up for beer. I tracked down my wife, and I was hoping to see about getting a divorce."

"Wait, you're married?" Jesse looked stunned, like he'd just been told the sun was green.

"It's a long story. Here's the short version: I'd like to not be married anymore."

"You and Elsa getting serious?"

"Mike and Fi got married, and yeah, it's got me thinking, and I think it's got her thinking, too. So, if something comes up, I don't want to have to explain this particular skeleton in my closet." And that, even more than the idea of Sam having an estranged wife, boggles Jesse's mind.

As he thinks about it, and gets over the shock that Sam, _Sam,_ might be thinking of wedding bells, another thought comes to mind. "So, why do you need me?"

Sam shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. "I don't really. But company would be nice, and a ten hour drive goes a whole lot faster with two people driving."

That sounds like some of the story is missing. Like it's a ten hour drive to... well, he can't think of anywhere particularly dangerous ten hours by car from here, but something like that. "Where is she?"

"Little, middle of nowhere town in Georgia."

That doesn't sound too bad. "And you just want me to drive?"

"Well, if things don't go too smoothly, an extra set of hands would be nice."

And there's the catch. "Uh huh. And what flavor of not smoothly are you thinking might happen?"

"She's got a new husband, who probably doesn't exactly know I exist and isn't likely to be too happy about it."

"Might not be too happy? 'I'm sorry, dear. Did I forget to mention I'm married to someone else and we've been committing a felony for the last ten years?'"

"It should be fine. I'm thinking if you can make sure I've got a few hours alone with her, I can get the paperwork done, divorce taken care of, and Mr. Palmer and the rest of the law never needs to know about this."

"How are you going to get a divorce done in a few hours?" Sure, Jesse isn't a lawyer, or have a lot of experience with divorce, but he's never heard of one going that fast.

"Turns out if you haven't spoken to a person in thirty years, don't have any property in common, and no kids, the paperwork is actually pretty easy. Just gotta get her to sign a few things, I'll send them in, and we'll be done."

"Uh huh. Why do I feel like we'll get there and this Palmer guy will be 6'6" and try to kill us?"

"Hey, just because it always works out that way doesn't mean it will this time. Besides, I think Mike's the bad luck. Him being around 'causes easy jobs to go haywire. But he's in France with Fi, so we'll be fine."

"Famous last words."

* * *

After lunch on Wednesday, as they crossed the border between Florida and Georgia Jesse asked, "So really, how did you end up married?"

"You know how they say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, not marriage licenses. We were young and stupid and it was a joke, until it wasn't. The first six months were good, but then I ended up on a float for a year, home for six weeks, off again for six months, and by the time I got home again, she had moved on and was living with one of my buddies."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. Soon as I found out, I got myself assigned to pretty much anything and everything outside of the States. Wasn't home for more than two weeks at a time for six years, and by that point I'd lost track of her. Since I didn't plan on getting married again, there was no rush to get a divorce. And until Veronica asked me to marry her—"

"Who's Veronica?"

"One of the ladyfriends I was serious about. About five years ago."

"And she asked you to marry her?"

"What can I say? I really am that good." Sam gives Jesse his Sam Axe charm smile, and Jesse laughs. "Anyway, until she asked me to marry her, I hadn't really thought of it."

"And then it bit you in the ass."

"Like a barracuda. I still limp some days because of it. I haven't told Elsa about it. Things are going well with us; I've got nothing planned this week, though officially you and I are on a job, so taking care of it seemed like a good idea."

"On the off chance she asks, what job are we on?"

"We're scouting a safe house for Mike and Fi. All the details of the trip stay the same, but we're just doing this to look at the house, not divorce the lady who lives inside of it."

"Good cover."

"I hope so."

"And this Mr. Palmer?"

"Neil Palmer. He owns the lumber mill that's keeping most of the town going. He should be at work all day. Which should give me time to talk to Amanda and get this taken care of."

"So, what, I just hang around outside the mill, keep an eye on him, and give you a call if he moves?"

"Exactly. Google maps says the mill is forty minutes from their house, so it's not like I'll be cramped for time on getting out of there."

"Jobs that are supposed to be this easy make me nervous, Sam."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm not doing this on my own."

Two hours later, as they drove past the mill, the very obviously closed mill, Jesse looks at Sam and says, "So much for Mike being the jinx. Now what?"

"Hell." Sam stops the car. "Gather intel, I guess. There's a diner over there, let's get something to eat and ask some questions."

They went in, got coffee and in Sam's case a club sandwich, fries, and a piece of apple pie, and in Jesse's just a burger, and listened in on the conversations around them. The good news was Neil Palmer was unlikely to be even remotely bothered by Sam and Jesse's arrival. The bad news was the plant was closed for his funeral.

Back in the car Jesse says, "You have the worst timing ever."

"Or the best. Without a husband around, I can just mail this to her. No need to worry about Palmer seeing the papers now."

"Twenty hours in a car to mail her divorce papers?"

"I'm not going to her home during his wake to ask for a divorce."

"I get that, just, that's a long car ride for nothing."

"We can get beer, and you can get babes on the way home."

Jesse stares at Sam for a long time. "You must be in love. No babes for you?"

"Not this time. But I'm always in favor of beer. Come on, there's a great place in Tallahassee, just three hours from here."

* * *

A/N: If any of you are NCIS fans, I'm taking a whack at McGabby in a story I'm working on right now. Shards To A Whole is up on the NCIS section, and, of course, the blog.


	24. Chapter 24

Week Twenty-four

Fi's explosion knocked Mike, Jesse, and a man named Donovan off their feet. Mike stood up a minute later, head ringing, staring at the smoldering wreck of half a dozen trucks.

The only good thing about it was he was expecting something like that, so it took him less time to get his wits about him than it took Donovan.

"He's found us! Finley's found us! We have to run!" He got the stunned man moving again and glared in the direction he thought Fi would be.

* * *

Hours later, back at their house, they gathered with Sam and Jesse.

"I think Donovan's convinced that it's time to talk to the Feds. After that explosion, witness protection's sounding awfully good to him. Speaking of which," Michael shifted his glance from Sam to Fi, "I said enough to scare him, not blow half of the trucks in the lot off the planet."

"I saw his face, he was scared." Fi smirked, satisfied at a job well done.

"Of course he was scared, and half dead, too! This plan doesn't work if you kill the guy we have to get talking."

"There was no danger of that."

"No danger?" Mike takes off his shirt, and turns his back to them, showing off the bruises and scrapes from where he landed against the pavement. He points at Jesse who is holding an ice pack to the back of his head. "Donovan had a bloody nose, ruptured ear drums, and a broken ankle."

"Exactly." Fi still looks smugly satisfied. "There was a car between you and the main force of the explosion, so you didn't take much of it. Jesse was shielded by it, too. Donovan was in the clear, so he got a full dose. You needed to sell the idea that the dreaded Chuck Finley wanted you both dead, and some real blood and pain does that very well."

"Explosions do that, period! You don't have to actually roast the guy."

"Guys, we can argue about this later. Right now, Donovan's ready to talk to my Fed, so I think it's safe to say the job is done, and we can put one in the win column," Sam said.

"Fine," Fi replied. "So tell us what was so important we ended up doing a job less than ten hours after getting home from our honeymoon?"

"Okay, you remember Agent Wood?"

"Yeah, we did that job for him to get the information on Nate," Mike says.

"Well, he had an accountant for the Teamster's Union who noticed some suspicious activity on one of the pension funds. That's Donovan. Anyway, he's getting ready to do some whistle blowing when he starts getting the be-a-good-boy, shut-the-hell-up, and we'll-make-it-worth-your-while treatment.

"So, he's thinking life just got pretty sweet. Nice new car, promotion, all the goodies are heading in his direction if he keeps his mouth shut.

"So, Wood called me to see if there was a way to go about convincing Donovan that he had to talk, so we came up with the idea of making him think that the big bosses thought he had already talked. We killed the bank account, wired the car to go boom, stuff like that. Which got him so scared he wanted to run. We just needed one more push to convince him he needed to run right into the arms of Wood."

"So that's what we were doing?"

"Yeah. And it looks like it worked, too. He called Wood right after you dropped him off, and supposedly they're talking now."

"Great."

* * *

Much later that night, Fi went for a midnight snack. Normally she's not a big snacker, but lately whenever she's awake she feels like eating, and the small person who seems to enjoy punching her in the bladder means she's not sleeping for more than three hours at a time.

She's not sure if Michael didn't go to sleep in the first place, or woke up at some point and started messing with the computer. Either way, he's sitting at the breakfast bar, computer in front of him, looking tense.

"I think it's time we need to keep you away from gunfire and explosions," he says as she opens the door to the fridge.

"Michael—"

"I'm serious. No more firing range, no more demolitions, no more C4 until after the baby is born." He turns the computer screen to her. "Look." He plays slow motion footage of the shockwaves of explosions. "I mean, they don't have a ton of information on the effects of explosions on pregnant women or their babies, but the MythBusters crew—"

"What's a MythBuster?"

"A TV show. I googled effects of explosions on a fetus and didn't get much. But a lot of clicking around got me to a TV show where they blow stuff up all the time, shoot things every episode, and one of the hosts got pregnant, and they stopped putting her anywhere near anything that went boom."

"This is the male equivalent of nesting, isn't it?"

"I think that's when I start adding the defensive fortifications to wherever we're living. This is just... protectiveness. Think about it, we all know what can happen if you get too close to an explosion, so let's not risk the baby. Donovan was a good hundred meters away from the center of that explosion and you still blew his eardrums out. Imagine what could happen to the baby if you got too close to an explosion."

"Okay, no explosions, but no guns? Really? I'll be bored."

"Bored and safe."

"This is more of your you-hang-back-and-let-me-do-the-dangerous-stuff, isn't it?"

"Fi, you're carrying our child."

"I'm still perfectly capable of shooting a gun and triggering an explosive."

"I'm not saying you aren't. I'm saying I'm going to go completely insane if something happens to you, and worrying about it isn't helping either."

"What about you? You think I don't worry about you off doing dangerous stuff, especially without me?"

That stops Michael. In truth the answer is no, he doesn't think she worries about him, not when it's about him having to deal with dangerous people, not for the kind of jobs they're doing now. Selling his soul, walking the dark path, and losing what's left of his humanity, sure, he knows she worries about _that_. Getting into a fight he can't handle? The idea that she might worry about that is both surprising and touching.

"How about we both take the next six months off? We can offer tactical support for Jesse and Sam, but stay out of any sort of active, get-shot-at, infiltrating sort of role."

"You think we can really do that? Sam'll show up with a job, we'll tell him what to do, something will go wrong, and next thing you know you'll be itching to get in costume and go save the day."

He shrugs. "True. But we can try."


	25. Chapter 25

Week twenty-five:

Sunday afternoon, they pulled up to Maddie's house for dinner and noticed something unusual. Jesse's Porche, Sam's Caddy, Madeline's Camry, and one more car.

A rental car.

"Fi, isn't that the rental car your mom was driving?"

"Yeah."

"She was supposed to go home with Sean after the wedding."

"I know. I booked the round trip tickets."

"Sooo..." Michael has the tense, worried look on his face that pops up when a job starts to go wrong.

Fi doesn't have anything to offer him; she's just as much in the dark as he is. "I guess we'll find out in a few minutes."

They enter and see Katherine in the kitchen, mixing something up. Buttery, cabbagy scents, warm, heavy, and for Fi, comforting, creep through the house.

Fi kisses her mother's cheek. "Hello, Ma. Shepard's pie?"

"Indeed, luv." She nods toward the counter. "And soda bread. You're looking peeky, and need to put some more weight on. If anything will do that, this will."

And it's true, a diet of her mum's cooking will keep anyone who doesn't exercise intensely every day fairly plump. Low carb and low fat are two terms Katherine Glenanne has never run into and would find deeply insulting. Between growing up dirt poor during the war and post-war years, and her family's history with the famine, food in her home is always rich, satisfying, and abundant.

Sam comes in, inhales deeply, and walks over to Katherine, pecking her on the cheek. "Katie, darlin'." Fi's eyes go wide at the idea that Sam's managed to charm her mom. "That smells delicious."

"Thank you, Sam." He reaches out a finger to taste the bowl of whipped potatoes. Katherine gently whacks his hand with the back of the spoon. "You'll be tastin' it soon enough."

"Yes, Ma'am! I'll go say hi to Jesse and Maddie."

Michael gets a glass of iced tea, holding out the pitcher to both of the ladies. Fi nods, and he pours for her. Katherine looks at the glass of lemonade, mostly full, next to the stove, and he gets the message that she doesn't need a refill.

"So, Ma, not to be rude, but what are you still doing here?"

"Cookin'."

Fi rolls her eyes, suddenly feeling fifteen again. Her mother would never give an enlightening answer when a not terribly informative but blatantly obvious one would do. "I can see that. I thought you were going back to Ireland."

"I thought I was, too. But you're right, I like the sunshine. And I like the company. Maddie offered to let me stay here as long as I liked, and at least for now, that sounds splendid."

The part Katherine left out was the rather long conversation the day after the wedding between her, Madeline, Sam, and Elsa about how to convince Mike and Fi that running away was a bad idea. She'd been happily recruited into the plan to keep Mike and Fi in Miami, and if that meant moving there for the time being, or longer possibly, then she was game.

Babies are hard enough with your family to support you. On your own, it's nerve-wracking, and neither Michael or Fi are naturally baby people, so anything she could do to help tie them to Miami, she was willing to do. And though she hadn't mentioned it to any of the others, she missed babies. Toddlers and young children she could take or leave, but babies she adored, and right now, the rest of her grandchildren range in age from four to thirty-three.

"So, you're staying, just like that?"

"I'm stayin'. Your brothers and their wives will muddle along without me for the time bein'. Sam agreed to help me get my visa straightened away. That man must be part Irish; he's got friends smilin' at him on every corner of the earth."

"To say the least."

"Now, off with you two. I've got to get this set, and you know I hate cookin' with people underfoot."

* * *

Much later that night, after dinner was finished, Sam pulled out a manila folder. He'd been put in charge of setting up Michael and Fi's new identities for wherever they were going next. "Are you really sure you want to do this? If you stay here, we've all got your back, and you've got the home court advantage."

"If we stay here, everyone knows where we are," Michael answered.

"True. I still think this is a bad idea." Maddie and Katherine had decided that letting Sam do the majority of the talking about why them running was a bad idea was a good plan. If they spent too much time talking about it, it was just two moms getting upset. If Sam talked about it, it had the weight of "good tactics" behind it.

"I know, Sam. We're not loving it, either."

"Fine." Sam handed them their new IDs. Jesse looked over Fi's shoulder and snorted a laugh. "Brad and Angelina Smith? Really, Sam?"

"Hey, I had to have some fun with this. I'm rewriting my best-friends lives and history."

Michael looked at him with a question on his face.

"Dude, you have never seen a movie, have you?" Jesse shakes his head. "You're Mr. and Mrs. Smith."

Michael still doesn't get it, but it looks like Fi is remembering something.

"Sam? What have you done?"

"Just christened you with a name befitting of your talents and exploits."

"You know, you look a little like her," Jesse says. "Not like anyone would mistake you for sisters, but you've got a similar bone structure, and hair."

* * *

After Mike and Fi left, Maddie and Katherine stared down Sam. Neither had been terribly impressed with his performance.

"You call that sellin' them on stayin'?"

"No, I call that planting the idea. Look, ladies, a spooked Mike is a delicate thing to handle. You've got to hit him with the idea just right, and make sure it sits in the back of his head until he thinks he came up with the idea in the first place. Don't worry, over the next week or two, I'll keep subtly mentioning about how useful it is to have a lot of people watching your back, and sooner or later he'll have a eureka! moment, and all will be well."

"You're sure, Sam?"

"Maddie, don't worry. I've got a few things in the works. Tomorrow or the next day one of the ladies at the Carlito is going to tell him that someone's been looking for him. In another few days someone else is going to give him a gentle warning about someone tailing him. It won't be for anything bad. I've got a buddy who needs a hand, and this'll just help set the scene that there are people out there who will help Mike if he stays here. Trust me, this time next week, week after at the latest, and he'll be sold on the idea that they've got to stay."


	26. Chapter 26

Week Twenty-Six

It was becoming increasingly clear that going into hiding sooner rather than later was a good plan. They'd hit the point where Fi was undeniably pregnant, which meant enemies were likely to start popping up soon.

They were having lunch at the Carlito, where one of the waitresses had just told them someone had been asking about Mike, when Fi said, "Madrid?"

"I don't speak Spanish, Fi. New Orleans?"

"New Orleans... maybe. Same country, no language issues, plenty of corruption so we wouldn't be out of work long."

"I think part of the idea of running is to get into a new line of work so we don't end up with even more people hunting us."

"What could we do? I really doubt we'd be good at office work."

"Translation? I speak eight languages, and you speak, what, four?"

Fi's expression says exactly how likely that is. They'd both be bored to tears after two days of doing nothing but repeating someone else's words in a different language.

"Legitimate security? Have companies hire us to break in and test what they do? It'd be safe and a bit boring, but we'd be good at it, it would pay well, and we wouldn't have to worry about drug dealers trying to kidnap Abby."

"Abby?"

Michael shrugs, he's been testing out baby names for a few weeks now, and Fi never knows what will come out of his mouth when he refers to their daughter. "Well, for this week, anyway."

"I still like Irene."

"Okay... Quebec?"

She sips her ice water. "Too cold. I might want to visit snow on occasion, but I don't want to live with it. Montenegro?"

"Still don't speak Spanish."

"How is it you were born and raised in Miami and can't speak Spanish?"

"Almost everyone here spoke English when I was a kid. And, it turns out, if you've got the kind of tongue that can handle Russian, Pashtun, Farsi, Japanese, Arabic, Urdu, and a little street Gaelic, you end up sounding like you're torturing a cat when you try to speak Spanish. The sounds just aren't the same."

Fi shrugs.

"Johannesburg?" Michael asks.

"South Africa?"

"Yeah. Good climate, they speak English, no one we know is there, and there's enough unrest that they'll want security people like us."

"How about here?"

"Fi...?"

"Stop looking at me like I'm insane. We'd make a big show of moving and keep some sort of residence wherever it is. But for the most part we'd just quietly live here. A new place. Probably not right in the middle of Miami."

"What would we do for work?"

And back to the same problem again.

Fi rested her hands on her belly. "I hate the fact that we basically have to stop being the good guys if we're going to raise this child. It's not supposed to work that way. You save the day, make the wrongs right, and then go home to your family."

Michael kissed her. They've been over it before, and will again. "We can meet with more adoptive parents."

"No. I hate the way they look at us, even more. Like we're the answer to all their hopes and dreams, and I know we're just going to disappoint them."

He nods. Neither of them are good at having people stare at them like they're holding the lifeline that will make everything better, and then turn around and say, "Nope, can't help."

A thought hits. It's nicely warm, properly metropolitan, and people from all over the world go there. "How about Sydney?"

"I like Sydney."

Michael stares at Fi. "You've been there? What were you doing?"

"Nothing anyone will ever trace back to me." She swats his hand playfully. "I was just there for fun, as a tourist."

"Oh."

"Yeah, you know, some people do travel, just for the sake of seeing new places and eating new foods."

"How interesting." He's grabs his computer and begins typing Sydney into the search engine, starting to figure out if there might be anywhere they'd like to live in there.

Fi scoots her chair next to him, and turns the computer a little so she can see what he's bringing up. It's a picture of the harbor, gleaming water, the orchestra in the background. It looks like a nice place.

He staring in the direction of the screen, but not really seeing it. She squeezes his hand. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't want to be the sort of person who stopped doing what was right. I don't want to tell Abby about how we used to save people and make the world a better place, but then we stopped because it was too dangerous."

"Then let's not! We'll stay here. We'll save the day. We'll keep the baby. And sure, we'll be the insanely paranoid parents who are always looking over their shoulders, and we'll drive her crazy when we swoop in with a tactical retrieval team when she's ten minutes late coming home from school. But we aren't the only people in Miami with high-risk kids. And we aren't the only ones with enemies. We can do this."

"We'll never sleep again."

"Like we would have if we ran."


	27. Chapter 27

Week 27:

"Why does Seymour want to meet us?"

"He didn't say over the phone," Fi said to Michael as they sat down at Carlito's.

"Somehow, I don't think this is going to work well with our stay away from explosions plan."

"Probably not, but if there was ever anyone we owe a favor..."

"Yeah, I know. Barry shows up tomorrow with a problem, and we'll go all in for him, too."

"Don't ever tell him I said it, and probably it's just the hormones talking, but that spikey-haired weasel really is growing on me. I almost cried when we opened his wedding present."

Michael shrugs; it was an especially nice gift. After all, who doesn't appreciate twenty thousand in untraceable cash packed in a chafing dish?

Fi sips her water, and he drinks his iced-tea as Seymour heads toward them.

"Michael, Fi, thanks for..." His voice trails off as his eyes drop to their hands. "You two got married! Destiny. I told you, 'Don't try to fight destiny.' Congratulations."

"Thanks Seymour." Michael says, feeling a little odd seeing Seymour gloating at them. "So, what can we do for you?"

Seymour suddenly looks serious, focused, almost like someone who might be good at multi-national gunrunning. It occurs to Michael that Seymour's crazy exterior might be an act, something he does to keep his enemies underestimating him. Well, maybe it's not entirely an act, but it's not all there is to him, either.

"Remember Jackass?"

"Yes." Michael says feeling cold, sure whatever is going to come next isn't going to be good.

"Okay. Jackass had a girlfriend. She's dead. He's in prison for it."

"And you want our help to... what, break him out?" Michael asks.

"If it comes to that. Look, I know for a fact that Jackass didn't do it because he and I were busy at the time, but what we were doing isn't going to make a good alibi, and will probably involve more prison time that just the murder rap."

"So, why do they think it was him?" Fi wanted to know.

"The girlfriend was married to a CSI."

"Oh." And there was the not good part. Tangling with dirty cops might be fun, but do it too often and you end up burning a lot of bridges.

"Yeah. She was strangled with Jackass's tie. His DNA was all over the place, including inside the knot of the tie, his fingerprints were on her glasses, and since the only people who can confirm he wasn't at her place that night are me and a half-dozen Nigerians..."

"I see. So you want this case to go away," Fi said.

"Or at least make it clear that he's been set up. I've got him a great lawyer, but even the best lawyer on Earth can't fight that much physical evidence. If that evidence were to be thrown out..."

"Do you have anything on this CSI?" Michael asked.

And Seymour did. They spent a few minutes looking over Seymour's files, starting to hash out something of a plan to get the cops looking in the right direction.

"Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute." Fi stands up.

Watched in real time, what happened next was very fast and resulted in the table tipped over, Seymour kneeling on the floor held in a thumb lock by Michael, and Fi touching his shoulder, saying, "Michael, I'm fine."

The slowed down version went something like this:

Seymour's eyes went wide as he saw Fi stand. She was still moving pretty easily, but there was no missing the fact she was pregnant when she stood up. Seymour said, "Oh my God, Fi you're pre—" while jumping up to hug her. He didn't get to finish that sentence and was very quickly saying, "Ow. Owwwww... Dude, calm down, I was just going to hug her," while Michael holds his thumb on the verge of dislocation.

Michael is aware of the fact that Fi isn't the only one changing because of her pregnancy. Sure, he's not gaining weight or getting clumsy, but he's definitely not the same guy he was six months ago.

And he's really not the same guy he was three months ago.

Pretty much, since Fi's been visibly pregnant, his brain hasn't been as in charge as he'd like it to be. Just like the primal, balls-in-charge sort of sexual attraction he's been feeling toward her lately, the desire to make sure she's safe and protected has lowered his ability to rationally assess threats to her.

So, while it's true that, if you _asked_ him, Michael is completely aware of the fact that Seymour not only isn't a threat, but is probably about to do something nice, but no one is _asking_ him. The fact that Seymour is moving quickly toward Fi and the baby has overridden that awareness and the only thing going on in Mike's mind is stopping the thing that is moving so quickly toward them.

The good thing is there's enough Mike left in this moment that Seymour's in a thumb lock, and not a chokehold.

The other good thing is that he comes back to himself pretty quickly, lets Seymour go, and apologizes while righting the table and looking horribly embarrassed.

"God, you are such a badass," Seymour says as he gets up. He's shaking his left hand, trying to ease the ache in his thumb, and then gently, slowly, keeping his hand a good ten inches away from Fi, holds it towards her stomach, and says, "May I?"

She nods, while Michael picks up glasses and silverware, shaking drops of iced-tea off the files Seymour gave him.

"This is so cool. I can't believe you two are going to have a baby. It's going to be the baddest badass in the history of badass." The baby picks that moment to kick, and Seymour lights up in a huge grin. He, once again, slowly and completely telegraphing what he's going to do before doing it, leans in and kisses Fi on the cheek. "Congratulations."

Fi leaves for the bathroom. He and Mike sit back down again while a waitress shows up with new drinks, and another one mops up the spilled ones.

"I really am sorry about that."

"No problem. I was insane when my ex was pregnant, too."

"You have a child?"

"Two of them. Amy is in college at the University of Pennsylvania, and Seth is a senior in high school. He still lives with his mom."

"How do you have two kids?"

Seymour laughs. "The usual way. Got my high school sweetheart pregnant, was married by nineteen, divorced by twenty-three. They're still up north. But I got into this as a way to support them. Turns out I was good at it. But she didn't like me doing it and left."

"Sorry to hear that."

Seymour shakes his head. "We had different destinies. Trying to fight it was futile. She and her new husband are happy. I'm happy with my guns. Just wish I got to see the kids more often."

Michael doesn't know what to say to that. He finishes mopping iced tea off the files. It looks like there wasn't too much damage to the paperwork.

"So, is this CSI dirty in general, or did he just go crazy on Jackass... Seymour, what is his real name? I'm not working on a case where the guy I'm working for is called Jackass."

"Melvin Frohike."

"And now I see why you gave him a nickname."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, it looks like he's done a really good job on the chain of evidence on Melvin's problem. But if he's dirty in general, we can probably get IA to start looking into him if there's some evidence of him fixing a case for his own benefit. Once that happens, just about every case he's ever worked on will go under the microscope. And from there we can start to throw some doubt into Melvin's case."

"Why not just do it for Jack—Melvin's case."

"He's a CSI, and he probably has cop buddies. Cop buddies may be willing to turn a blind eye on framing the guy who was fooling around with his wife. They probably won't turn a blind eye if he's been screwing around with the evidence in such a way that might mess up their conviction rates."

"Okay."

Michael grabs his phone. "I'm going to call Sam; he's the one with the cop buddies. Let's see what he's got on this."

* * *

A/N: Sorry I got this up later in the day than usual. Will do better on Sat. Meanwhile if any of you are NCIS fans, I've started a McGee-centric story called Shards To A Whole. Right now it's T rated, but it'll switch to M really soon. Happy Wednesday!

Saturday update: Okay, I don't know what's up with Chapter 28. For whatever reason it's not doing it's thing. It's loaded up on my blog characters are my heroin dot blogspot dot com (just drop the spaces). I've just tried loading it as Chapter 29, and we'll see if I can get this fixed.

Sorry it's not working right. :(


	28. Chapter 28

Week 28

"So, have you given any thought to what kind of birth you'd like?" Doctor Johnson asks them at the close of their appointment.

"What do you mean?"

"Lots of parents write up birth plans; they pick what sort of atmosphere they'd like to labor in, decide what level of intervention they want."

"I was under the impression that the baby pretty much made that decision," Fi said.

"That's more or less true. Yes, how the baby comes calls most of the shots. But if you have a normal delivery you can pick how much pain medication you want, whether or not you want an episiotomy, if you want to be laboring moving around or in water. What level of monitoring you want. That sort of thing."

"Are you suggesting some women chose to go through the pain without medication?" Fi asks, looking at Doctor Johnson like she's some sort of bizarre alien that's just crawled out of a very deep hole and is speaking to her in a language she's never even dreamed of hearing before.

Now it's the doctor's turn to look at Fi like she's some sort of alien. "Yes. Natural childbirth is very popular. We even offer classes on it."

Michael and Fi are both looking at the doctor like she's insane. It's true that Michael isn't a huge fan of pain medication if he's got to be able to think and do; it's also true that he sees no need to go through unnecessary pain. Likewise, Fi's been shot, stabbed, dealt with broken bones, sprains, strains, burns and various other injuries, and she's very much a fan of pain medication.

So, they're both staring at the doctor in horror at the idea that some people think skipping the pain meds is a good idea. It's one thing if you've got to finish a job, run a con, or keep your head clear. It's a whole other thing when the only thing you've got planned post-pain is sleeping, eating, and dealing with a baby.

Fi spends another moment looking at Doctor Johnson. "I'd like the kind of birth where I get lots of drugs and the baby comes out quickly."

"Those things don't always go hand in hand. The drugs can slow down the baby coming."

"Uh huh..."

"How do you feel about c-sections?" Johnson asks.

"What do you mean? If you need one, you need one."

"Some women try to do everything they can to avoid one."

"I'm not suggesting that we set one up now, but If I need one, I'm all in favor of a c-section."

"Anything that gets the baby out with both of them healthy is fine with me," Michael added, feeling a little superfluous to this conversation.

"Okay. And have you given any thought to post-baby birth control?"

Fi shrugs. At this point, she knows there's not much likelihood of there being time for another baby. But if one happens, one happens. "Not really. Honestly, I've probably only have a year or so where it'll even be an issue."

"So, if it does end up being a c-section, you're not thinking of getting your tubes tied, as well?"

"No. It can be, what, a year before you start ovulating again, and that'll put me at almost forty-six."

"There abouts, if you breastfeed. Most of the time, at least. But don't think breastfeeding will work as birth control. You wouldn't believe how many Irish twins I've delivered because breastfeeding didn't do the job."

"Irish twins?"

"You know, two babies in one year."

"No, I didn't know." Fi looks huffy about that, and Michael remembers that her brothers Stephen and Allan are less than a year apart.

"So, what do you suggest?" he asks, looking to diffuse this.

"Just give it some thought. Fiona's right, menopause will probably hit soon, but if you want something permanent, now is the time to be thinking about that. For example, if you're thinking a vasectomy, before the baby shows up is a much better idea than after. Among other things, you aren't supposed to lift anything that weights more than ten pounds, you know, like a baby, for a week after one." That was something Michael actually did know. Back in his mid-thirties he had been thinking about it, but the recovery time was something he couldn't see fitting into his job.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"So, other things to think about: do you want a midwife or doula? Will your family or friends be coming for the birth? Do you want to do it at the hospital, a birthing center, or at home? Granted, for women in your age group we strongly suggest the hospital or a birthing center, but so far you've been doing fine, so home is an option."

"What's a doula?" Mike asks, but he can see Fi's thinking the same thing.

"A birth coach. Someone who helps you handle labor and makes sure things go according to plan."

"How does that even work?" Fi asks. "Not like a doula can keep labor moving along or the baby from going into distress."

"Honestly, I think it's a mind over matter thing. A doula helps to keep you two calm, and calm parents tend to have an easier time with labor and delivery."

"Okay. I think we're both a little better at handling stress than Joe and Jane Average," Fi said.

"You might be, but you've also never done this before. A lot of parents find having a baby very exciting but scary, as well."

"Sure. Anything else we should be thinking about?" Michael asked.

"Nursery decor? You've got everything you need for the part of it I'll be handling."

* * *

"Nursery decor... You know, we do need to do something about that," Fi says as they walk back to the Charger.

"I know. Sam, Jesse, and I have been planning out a few modifications that we want to get set before decorating anything."

"What are you thinking?"

"Rebar re-inforced walls, extra alarms, bulletproof windows, emergency exit into the basement. Stuff like that."

"And you don't tell me about this?"

"I was going to." Michael smiles, realizing he should have kept quiet.

"Before or after you got the tools out and started building?"

"Before." She gives him the cut-the-bull look. "While we were getting the tools out."

"You don't want me involved with planning?"

"No, it's just... We were at Carlitos, and you were with your mom and mine, and we thought it might be nice if you came home one afternoon and found it all done. It's not like Jesse's gonna be hosting a baby shower anytime soon, and the guys wanted to do something."

Fi smiles. "That is sweet. And Barry and your mom are hosting the baby shower."

"What?" Michael looks deeply alarmed by the idea of Barry and a baby shower.

"It's supposed to be a surprise. So, act like you don't know about it."

"If it's supposed to be a surprise, how do you know about it?"

"I overheard Barry and your Mom talking about it. Either they're hosting a baby shower, or there's going to be a lot of food and pink decorations at a very strange party on Saturday."

"Uh huh. So, anyway, what sorts of nursery decorations do you want? I can't see filling a room with pink bows and frills, even if she is a girl."

Fi thinks about it. "White walls, seashell pink trim, and foam green accents."

"I can do that. Pick colors for us, and we will paint."

"I'll paint, too."

Michael shrugs, he wouldn't be volunteering to paint if he didn't have to. "If you want to. Or you could go do something none of the rest of us want to do, something you like and we don't..." Fi looks interested at this idea. A mission! It's been a long time, and a longer time yet is coming. "You could go shopping and get baby furniture, clothing, and all the rest of that stuff, while we paint."

"Really Michael, shopping?"

"You like to shop. I don't. Jesse and Sam certainly have no interest in shopping for baby gear. Take our moms, have a day of it. It'll be fun."

"Says the man who is desperately trying to avoid being part of said day."

"It'll be fun for _you_." Michael smiles brightly again. Fi's not buying it. "It'll be fun for _them_."

"That I believe."

* * *

Three days later, as Katherine and Madeline question Fi about her latest doctor's appointment, they get back to what sort of birth they want to have.

"I remember when the whole 'natural childbirth' thing started. I had Michael the old-fashioned way. Go to the hospital, spend however many hours in labor while your husband paces and smokes, or in Frank's case, drinks, in the waiting room, and when the time comes they knock you out and you wake up with a baby. But by the time Nate came along, this natural childbirth thing was starting to get some attention. Suddenly, they wanted the father to be in the room with you while it happened, and I can tell you that was one of the few times Frank and I saw eye to eye. I didn't want him in that room, and he didn't want to be there."

"He wasn't there for either birth?" Fi asks.

"No. And the last thing I needed was a sarcastic drunk fighting with me while I dealt with labor."

"Your Da wasn't there for your birth, either."

"Da was in jail when I was born."

"Your Da wasn't there for any of your births. He and the lads were at the pub celebratin' the new wee one. The only man invited to the birth was the doctor. There are some things your husband" and she stares at Michael, who was in the kitchen, prepping ingredients for dinner, trying to pretend he wasn't there, "should never see, and squeezin' out a baby is at the top of the list. Some images a man just shouldn't have in his head. Trust me, luv, you want a certain level of..." Katherine seems to be hunting for a word, "mystery about that bit of you, and he's never going to feel the same way about it if he sees ya havin' a baby."

There are times when Michael has wished not to be part of conversations, times when he's tried to get out of them, tried to blend into the walls and pretend he wasn't there, but he has never, ever been so keenly interested in vanishing as he is now. He has never, ever had any desire to know anything about his mother's, or his mother-in-law's, sex life or how having a baby (or in Katherine's case, seven) affected that.

But both his mom and Fi's seem to think this is a fine time to talk with her about the subject, completely ignoring the fact he's in the room, or possibly seeing if he can be made to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

The truth is he does want to be there for the birth. And no, he couldn't care less about actually seeing it happen up close and personal, if Fi would rather he's holding her hand and next to her head the whole time, that's fine, but he doesn't want her alone and in pain. They got into this together, it's only right that they should go to the next step of it together, as well.

The other truth is he's not terribly interested discussing this with his mom or Fiona's.

But all three of them are staring at him, waiting for him to say something about this.

"I was planning on being there. In fact, the doctor said you two could be there if you wanted to."

Ahhh... Good, that's got them talking with each other about if they want to be there. He finished chopping up the vegetables, and decides now would be a very good time to start the grill.

Fi comes out five minutes later. "I hope you're happy. They both want to be there for it. Can't wait to offer support and see the brand new baby."

"Extra support might be a good thing. Sort of like a doula, but our moms."

"Were you thinking a doula sounded good?"

"No. Didn't want any strangers there."

"Me either."

"And if you don't want our moms there, I'll make sure they aren't."

"I'd rather it was just us. They weren't there when we made the baby, and they don't need to be there when it comes out."

"Okay. What else do you want?"

She sighs. "I don't know. Just... for her to come out and be healthy. I don't care about water births, natural births, chanting..."

"Chanting?"

"It was in one of the pamphlets Doc Johnson gave us."

"Okay."

"Just you and me, and as few other people as possible."

"Then it'll be you and me and as few other people as possible." He thinks about that. "Does that mean you want to do it at home?" Michael's a half decent medic, especially for someone with no formal training, and he figures he can handle an uncomplicated birth if it comes to that.

"You and me, at a hospital, where there's plenty of doctors if the need arises, sounds fine to me."

"Then you and me, at the hospital, with doctors if necessary, and no chanting."

"Definitely no chanting." Fi smiles at him, and he pets her cheek.

"I'll go tell our moms that I'm more comfortable without them at the birth."


	29. Chapter 29

Week 29

All things considered, as Fi went from trimester two into trimester three, the pregnancy had been going well.

By week twenty-two she had regained the weight she lost from morning sickness, and had continued from there to plump up nicely.

The baby was doing a pretty good job of not bugging her mom, too much. Sure, she seemed to be under the impression that Fi's bladder was her own personal combination pillow and punching bag, but beyond that, she was behaving.

And compared to some of the horror stories Fi had been hearing, something about a visibly pregnant woman inspires strangers to tell said woman just utterly terrible things, she'd been having it pretty easy.

So, she probably should have figured she was due for something to happen. After all, whenever a job seems like it's going too well, something is about to jump out and bite them.

She was getting dressed to go jogging. She stopped training with Michael when it came to fighting as soon as she learned she was pregnant, but since the doc said pregnancy wasn't a good time to start jogging, but if you were already doing it, there was no reason to stop as long as it didn't hurt, they had kept up with the running.

Fi stood on one foot, and lifted the other to put a sock on. Normally that would be that, put sock on, lower foot, put other sock on, and go run. But this time something happened. She doesn't know what, but she was standing, foot up, sock in hand, and then there was searing pain all down her hip and left leg, and she was on the floor cursing loudly.

Michael was there a second later, worried, picking her up, asking what happened.

She tried, gingerly, to put some weight on her leg, and once again pain went shooting through it.

Five hours later they were out of the Emergency Room with a diagnosis of a strain, and instructions to put ice on her hip and rest.

* * *

They are sitting on the bed, her between his legs, back resting against his chest, as he gently rubs her hip and thigh.

"How about Claire Natalie?" Michael asks.

"I like Claire. But..."

"Yeah, I don't actually like Natalie either. It's a bad name for a girl. Natalia isn't much better. I just want—"

"What was his middle name?"

"Elias."

Fi thinks about that. "Ellie? Elise?"

Michael slowly starts to smile. "I like Elise."

"How about Elise Claire? Claire is just mine, but Nate was both of ours."

Michael kisses Fi's temple, and rests his hands on the baby bump. He strokes it firmly, and feels the baby kick in response.

"Hello, Elise."

* * *

Supposedly, Sam is bringing them to meet a client. Just for a consult. He and Jesse will handle the heavy lifting on this. Mike and Fi are just there to plan.

Supposedly this client is very security conscious, which is why they're going to his place in, from what Michael can see, the Everglades.

And, as they pull into a driveway filled with cars, he sees Sam frown. Someone, and he's guessing in this case, someone is Barry, forgot that if you're trying to set up a proper surprise party for Joe Average, let alone Mr. and Mrs. Superspy, not having everyone parking in the driveway is a good

plan.

It's a beautiful house, and it's way off the beaten track, and Michael is certain that's on purpose. Sure, Barry and his mom may have forgotten about the parking situation, but they both understood that this particular combination of guests would need a lot of privacy.

Inside looks like a Mary Kay convention. There's pink everywhere. Pink balloons, pink streamers, pink pillows, pink cake, and in case all of the pink didn't get the idea across, It's A Girl was emblazoned everywhere.

And also inside was a huge group of people, almost everyone he and Fi have helped over the years. He's got no idea how Barry and his mom could have come up with this guest list. It boggles his mind that all of these people are here to celebrate him and Fi having a baby.

And yes, the games are kind of cheesy, and the food could be better, but as he sits there opening a collection of unique baby gifts, he's amazed at how much he loves these people, and how happy he is right that moment. He leans over and kisses Fi, which results in a wave of "Ahhhs" cresting over them, strokes her face, and pets Elise.

And right now, life is awfully sweet.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so we had a bit of a snafu on last week's update, so here' the emergency back-up plan. Everything I post on fanfiction, I also post on my blog. 38 Weeks posts go live at midnight (Pacific Time) on Wednesdays and Saturdays. So, if, for whatever reason, you can't get it here, you can always bop over to characters are my heroin dot blogspot dot com and the goodies will be there as well.


	30. Chapter 30

On Sunday of the thirtieth week, Michael held the smallest combat knife he had ever seen.

"You know, when Nate and Ruth got pregnant, they got onesies, diapers, and a stroller from their friends."

"I think it's sweet that our friends are thinking of us."

"Yeah. Sweet. Fi, this is a toddler-sized combat knife." Michael was holding either the coolest thing in the history of weaponry or the scariest thing he had ever seen. He wasn't entirely sure. What he did know was that a combat knife was a horrendously inappropriate present for a child, even if, as Seymour had said, this child was going to be the biggest badass in the history of badass.

"A toddler-sized combat knife that Seymour had specially made for us. I'm not saying Seymour and sane have even a casual relationship. Still, you've got to admit, it is cute."

"It's got a pink bow and a rattle built into the hilt. I really hope our two-year-old never needs her very own combat knife."

Michael put the knife down as Fi picked up a dark blue and gray diaper bag. It had been sitting in a box, along with a second one in mauve and pink, with a very congratulatory card from Buddy. "The bags are cute."

"The bags are very nice." It had taken Michael a good half hour to even remember who Buddy was, let alone why he'd given them his and hers Coach diaper bags. "I don't think these are real, Fi."

"I know, Michael. Not only does Coach not make diaper bags, they certainly don't make them with holsters."

"What's this pocket for?"

"A taser? Maybe an extra bottle."

"Huh."

They're in the nursery, unpacking all of the baby shower presents, making a list of what they still need.

Fi leans over to a large box, and checks it. "I thought so. Sam and Elsa got us a stroller."

"Good. Stroller, check. Am I remembering right, did your mom get you a breast pump?"

"Yeah."

Michael checks that off the list as well. "What's in that envelope?"

"The extra fake IDs."

"Right, because what toddler doesn't need her own fake IDs?"

Fi checks the passports over carefully. They're perfect, save for the missing pictures. "This one is for if she needs to run with Sam. It's for Elise Finley."

"Of course. Is he supposed to be her grandfather?"

"Who knows? There's one for Elise Porter, as well. It looks like these were designed so that if we ever want to get her out with a trusted friend, she's ready to go."

Michael sighs, very much hoping they won't ever have to hand their daughter to Jesse or Sam and have her flee. Still, it's good to be ready to do that if they need to. He writes it on the list, along with a note to give the right passports to Jesse and Sam as soon as they've got pictures to put in them.

Fi opened another box. "And we've got onesies. Who's Jessica?"

"Remember the Frozen Yogurt lady, with the Fed who was posing as a loan shark."

"Yeah." Fi holds a tiny pink onesie with little butterflies on the chest up. "It's hard to believe she'll be that small."

Michael puts down the list and leans over to touch Fi's tummy. "She's even smaller than that now."

"She feels a lot bigger than that now." Fi winced. "Help me up." Michael stood up, and helped lever Fi off the floor. She limped in the direction of the bathroom, and he went back to the list.

By the end of the afternoon, they had their shopping list ready. Operation: Get Nursery Ready was one step closer to beginning.


	31. Chapter 31

Week 31:

"Okay, thanks." Michael hung up the phone.

"Spoke to Uen?" Madeline asked. She and Katherine had come over to get Fi and begin looking for nursery furniture.

"Yep, he's fine with me adding some protections to the house." Michael, Sam, and Jesse had Harden Nursery: Phase One all but in motion when Madeline mentioned that just maybe, before ripping the walls out and reinforcing them with rebar that it would be a good idea to ask their landlord if it was okay to make any modifications.

In that his mom and mother-in-law were sitting there, helping Fi get baby things ready, he agreed to do it. But no matter what Uen said, that room was going to be reinforced and protected. Lucky for him, Uen was fine with it, so he didn't have to lie.

"Does he have any idea what sorts of protections you intend to add?" Madeline asked.

"He might be under the impression that I'll be adding motion activated floodlights, and maybe an alarm system."

"Uh huh." Madeline looks at Michael standing in front of stacks of rebar, new drywall, the specialty reinforced, bulletproof glass windows, and the dual alarm systems.

"I will install motions activated floodlights and an alarm system."

"Lovely."

"We ready to go?" Sam asks, carrying in a drill, sawzaw, and circular saw.

"We are ready to go. Uen says we can add whatever we like as long as it's back to the way it was before we began when we leave."

"You didn't tell him what you were going to do, did you?"

"Not at all."

"Okay then." Jesse grabbed the dust masks and tossed one to Michael and one to Sam. "Let's tear down some drywall."

"Bye, boys, have fun!" Madeline calls out as they head off, the sound of power tools echoing behind her.


	32. Chapter 32

Week Thirty-two:

"Why are we doing this?" Michael asked as they headed, him carrying two pillows, towards their doctor's office. "I thought you were all in favor of the lots of drugs version of labor and delivery."

"I am in favor of lots of drugs. But apparently it can hurt for weeks before the drugs get to be part of this, and one of your mom's buddies was talking about how Lamaze training is really good for dealing with the stress of the baby after it's born."

"I can understand that, but why are we going to a class? Don't they have videos online or something?"

"They probably do. Just humor me. We'll go, we'll learn, we'll sit on the floor and breathe, and then come home and eat some frozen yogurt."

"Okay."

Ever since full-on summer had shown up, Michael can't keep enough frozen yogurt in the house. Fi's been gulping it down, as one of the few things that keep her comfortably cool.

He's at the point where he's wearing suits all the time, not because he's got anything particularly formal to do, but because, as a resident of south Florida, he doesn't own any sweaters, and the jacket keeps him comfortably warm in their home.

* * *

Lamaze classes are painfully boring. Maybe if he hadn't read everything in all of the books his mom got. Maybe if, after having done that, he hadn't gotten several obstetrics textbooks and then read them. And maybe if he hadn't spent hours on line watching live births, both vaginal and c-sections, he would have felt like he was learning something.

As it is, he's feeling awfully over-prepared for this whole thing.

He watches Fi do the whole breathing thing, doing it with her, and feels like this is pretty silly. He got better training than this from the CIA, and he's sure Fi's good with this, too. After all, it's not like either of them are new to the idea of focusing, forcing themselves to relax, and just go with it.

That's anti-interrogation 101.

He is amused to see the focus items the other couples bring. There are pretty pictures, a few stuffed animals, some small random bits of art, a redhead and her husband have a tiny pewter dragon, and he and Fi have a detonator. It's not set to blow anything, but as Fi said, "It's supposed to help me focus, and nothing makes me focus better than explosives." He couldn't argue with that, so they brought it.

The redhead sees it, nudges her husband, and smiles at them, but no one else in the class seems to know what it is.

At the end of class they walk out, and Michael says, "So, yogurt at home or out?"

"Out, I want toppings."

"Not a problem." He never anticipated his free yogurt with unlimited toppings for life card was going to come in this handy. But lately Fi's wanted lots of chocolate yogurt with tons of peanut butter sauce on it.

When they get there, she sits down and he fetches the yogurt. She's still limping from her damaged hip, and sitting or lying down seems to hurt a lot less than walking. Doc Johnson had said that from the looks of it, the suture between her sacrum and ilium had slipped, which is normal for small women with large babies, but the result of that is whenever she goes to take a step the muscles that stabilize her pelvis have to work a whole lot harder than normal. So, it's going to hurt until the baby is born and those bones have a chance to get back to where they belong. The good news is that most women heal up from this with no long term issues.

He sets the yogurt in front of her. "Do you want to go back?"

She takes a bite. "Not really. I don't feel like they had anything to offer I didn't already know."

"Me either."

"I appreciate you going."

He smiles and takes a bite of his blueberry yogurt. "Thanks."

* * *

On Thursday, the furniture showed up.

Friday and Saturday were punctuated by the sounds of power tools, occasional cursing, but mostly laughing. Sure, Fi had left for the "modification" of the nursery, and since the paint fumes ended up giving her a headache when she went in to check on it, not being there was probably a good thing, but she was there for furniture building.

The four of them, Sam, Jesse, Fi, and Michael sat in a small room, playing with power tools, putting together a crib, a dresser, a changing table, and a rocking chair, and enjoyed it.

It occurs to Michael that this is probably the last time for what will probably be quite a while that all four of them will work together on something, and that lends a bittersweet quality to the work.

* * *

On Saturday night, his mom, Katherine, and Elsa come over for dinner, and to see the grand unveiling of the nursery.

The walls and furniture all are crisp, cool white. The trim and bedding is a soft, rosy pink, feminine but nothing reminiscent of Barbie. The details, like the cushions on the rocking chair, the drawer pulls, the pad on the changing table, and the curtains are a dusty yellow-green.

It's a welcoming place, and as the Grandmas ohh and ahh over it, Michael can imagine Fi, sitting in that chair, nursing Elise, as he leans against the door and watches.

During dinner, as they trade tales of stubborn furniture and not having all the right pieces, he realizes that yes, this might be the last job they all gather for, for a while, but it's not the last time they'll all be together. These people will be here, together, in the coming months to enjoy each other and welcome this child into their family.

And that thought arcs through bittersweet and fills Michael with a sense of peace and hope.

* * *

A/N: if you feel like hopping over to the blog, I did find a picture of the nursery. www dot characters are my heroin dot blogspot dot com


	33. Chapter 33

Week thirty-three:

Michael came home from the grocery store and found Fi rocking against the exercise ball.

"Hurting again?"

"Yeah. This helps some, but what I really need is about three extra vertabrae. I just need some more room for this kid to spread out."

"Well, how about you hop into your bathing suit and we hit the hot tub?"

"Michael, it's 110 degrees out there. The last thing I want to do is take my overheated body, go outside into the blazing heat, and then soak in water that's even hotter than that on top of it. I've got the AC set at 55, a frozen drink next to me, and I'm still sweating."

"I thought you might say that, so I got you a surprise."

"What?"

Michael lifted a bag of ice out of one of the grocery bags. "I've got four bags of ice here. Get in your suit, give me about ten minutes, and I should have a nice, cool hot tub for you."

Fi smiled. Full body immersion ice water sounded really good. "That's perfect."

Five minutes later, Michael had dumped the ice into the tub, put a few candles around it, lit them, and was waiting for Fi.

Five more minutes later, and she still wasn't out.

Five minutes after that, and he decided to go in and see what was going on.

"Fi?" He headed toward their bedroom. "You okay?"

She was sitting on the side of the bed, in her bathrobe, glaring at her bathing suit.

"It doesn't fit."

"The wall is high. I'll kill the lights, and you can go in naked. No one will see."

"You'll see."

"I've seen you naked, Fi." He shucks off his bathing suit. "I'll go in naked, too."

"What if I don't want you to see?"

"Why wouldn't you want me to see you?" Michael looks honestly perplexed by this, which seems to lift Fi's spirits, a little.

But not enough. "Because I'm fat and puffy and saggy."

Michael stands in front of her, taking her hands in his. "Stop that." He tugs gently until she's standing, and then turns them around so he's sitting on the bed, and she's standing between his legs.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asks as he skims his hands over her shoulders, under the robe, slipping it off of her.

Fi looks down at herself. "Flab, grotesque ankles, and ugly blue veins?"

"No. I see my woman," he touches her wedding ring, "and my child," and his fingers caress her stomach, "and I see how you got this way. And, since I don't know exactly which time did it, I remember a week of the best sex of my life. I see you on top of me, your head back, hair wild, breasts jiggling with each thrust. And I see you right after that, when you dropped to your hands, so your hair fell around us and all I could see was your face, and your eyes staring into mine. I see you under me, legs around my waist, and I hear the incredibly sexy things you were saying to me while we rocked together. I remember us on our sides, facing each other, and your back to me. I remember you on your hands and knees in front of me. I certainly remember you handcuffing me to the bedpost for the longest forty minutes of my life, while you blew my mind—"

She's smiling now. "Michael, that wasn't your mind I was blowing, and of all the things we did that week, that's one of the few I'm certain didn't get me pregnant."

He shrugs, grinning. "Still a good memory. And I do see it when I look at your mouth." His fingers ghost along her lips. "I remember putting you on the tiny counter in the kitchenette and returning the favor. And, yes, I know that didn't get you pregnant, either. But all of those memories are still in my head, every time I see you.

"So, I don't see flab. I see luscious, soft," he traces over her tummy and hips, "curves. And I couldn't care less about blue veins," he leans forward to softly kiss each breast, "because I love the way these jiggle each time you move, and how sensitive they are now, and how I can drive you crazy by petting them," his hands cup her bottom, "and if your ankles are less than perfect, I'd have no idea, because I haven't looked below your ass in a very long time. It's round and soft and fits perfectly in my hands and snugs against me when we're spooning, so that when you lift your leg over mine, and we find that angle where I can just slide in and set both of us off, I get to slip through a warm and soft embrace and that feels ridiculously good. So, it attracts my attention." He takes her face in both hands, and kisses her deeply. "How about we go get into our now nice and cold hot tub and make some more memories?"


	34. Chapter 34

Week 34

Michael woke and found himself alone in bed. And, while waking in the middle of the night isn't unusual for him, finding himself alone in bed is.

He can see dim light from under the door, which means Fi must be in the living room. He doesn't hear anything and eases the door open gently. Sure, there's probably nothing scarier than Fi getting a midnight snack on the other side of that door, but still, he's not about to advertise what he's doing.

She's kneeling on the floor, the top half of her resting against the exercise ball, rocking back and forth. Blue-white light flickers off the TV. He can't hear it, so either she's got it on mute or has earbuds in.

Relieved to see she's okay, he goes to take care of what woke him up in the first place.

A minute later, he joins her.

She turns her head toward him as soon as one of his feet hits the kitchen floor, obviously no earbuds.

"Feeling okay?"

"Not really." She's still rocking slowly, and he sees her face tighten. Contractions. According to the doctor having them on and off like this is normal.

"Can I help?"

"I wouldn't mind a back rub."

"No problem." He slides his hands over her back and hips. She's got on a tank top and a pair of his pajama pants. He pushes the tank top up, and the pants down, so his hands can glide over skin. He kisses her tattoo, gently pressing his thumbs into the flesh on both sides of it.

"How often are they?"

"Tenish minutes."

"So, not time to go to the hospital, then?"

"I don't think so. I'll have three little ones in ten minutes, and then go twenty minutes with nothing, then another one in fifteen minutes, then a few quick ones. Beyond making sure I don't sleep, there's no pattern to it."

"Okay." He rubs gently for a while, feeling her skin tight and warm under his fingers. "What are you watching?"

"No idea. It's just on."

He nods, rubbing over the crest of her hip, fingers pressing firmly into her sacrum. "So, what is this tattoo?"

"Mandarin for fire."

He smiles at that. "When did you get it?" She hadn't had it, or any of the tattoos, when they were in Ireland. He knows she got the little one of the harp on her foot after he got outed as a spy and she couldn't go back. And he knows the one on her wrist was a memento of a lost fight in New York and turning her life to a new path. But somehow he's never asked about this one before.

"2003. I didn't have any of them back then, and I wanted something cute, but still me."

He kisses the tattoo again. "It is cute, and it's very much you."

"Did you ever think of getting one?"

"Back when I was in the Rangers, sure. Most of the guys had at least one, if not more, and all of the sharp-shooters had one."

"Why didn't you?"

"Don't know. Never got around to it? Spending hours having someone inject ink into my skin didn't sound fun? Turned out to have been a good thing. The fewer identifying marks the better."

She smiles at that. "You should get one."

"What, now?"

"Not this second. But I remember looking at your death certificate, and there was one mistake on it. Jason Bly apparently didn't remember what your eye color was and had it listed as hazel-brown. Anyway, get a tattoo, quietly, and that'll be another clue as to if the papers I'm looking at are legit or not."

"I'll keep that in mind. He really thought my eyes were hazel?"

"It was on the certificate. And, I guess, in some light, if you're wearing the right shirt, they look that color."

"And, it's not like he was spending too long gazing into my eyes."

"True."

They sit, quietly. Fi's no longer rocking on the exercise ball; she's just using it as something to rest the top half of her body against. He feels her muscles tense under his hands, and works on soothing them. Though there isn't a clock within easy view, he counts the seconds to see how long this one lasts.

"Forty seconds."

"Not too bad. I'm not really looking forward to the ones that come later."

"Me either."

She laughs when he says that and turns her head toward him. "Yeah, I know, those men's contractions are a real bastard."

He laughs, as well. "What would you like to see me tattoo onto myself?"

"A chameleon on your hip."

"You've actually thought about this?"

"Not really, it's just the first thing that comes to mind. But you are a chameleon, and your hip is one of the few bits of you that never sees the light of day. I'd know about it, the guy who did it would, and no one else."

"Fiona..."

"Yes, Michael?"

"I'm not gay."

"I've never thought you were gay."

"Good. Straight guys don't get cute little lizards tattooed onto their hips."

"Okay, a big, fire-breathing dragon with swords, guns, fire, and bombs standing over a naked woman."

He laughs. "I'm not a pirate, either."

"What would you do, then?" She asks. He spends a moment looking at himself. She's right, his pelvis and hips are pretty much the only parts of him that never see the light of day. And he just cannot see putting a tattoo of any sort on any of those parts of him.

"No idea. Probably another reason why I never got one. There hasn't been anything I wanted to burn into my skin." As he says that he notices something, his wedding band is fairly wide, and these days he's always wearing it. Sure, he'll take it off for future jobs, but he's got other rings, there's no reason why that bit of him should need to see the light of day again.

"How about this: 4, 2, 97, and whatever day Elise shows up, 13, around my ring finger, under the ring?"

"I know we met in April of '97, but how do you know the exact date?"

He smiles. "That's the day my whole life changed, why wouldn't I remember it?"

She laughs at that. "Liar."

He shrugs. "I wrote a report about meeting you, and the day stuck in my mind."

"Better. So, the day we met and the day our daughter is born?"

"Yeah. You'll know it's there, and that can be a test. Someone claims to have me, and you ask for proof. They can't come up with the right numbers, and you know they don't actually have me."

"I like that."

"Me too."

Michael yawns.

"How about you go get some sleep? There's no need for both of us to be tired tomorrow."

"It already is tomorrow, and there'll be time for sleep later."


	35. Chapter 35

On Thursday night, Fi asked, "Do you want to have sex?"

Michael looks up from his book. Because of the hip pain, Fi hasn't been interested in sex in a while, and she doesn't exactly look like she's craving it right now, either. In fact, the look on her face is much closer to dread than take-me-to-bed-and-do-things-to-me-that-were-illegal-in-half-a-dozen-states.

But he's not entirely sure how to answer this, because he doesn't want her thinking he's rejecting her.

He smiles, buying himself another second to think, puts the book down, and kisses her. "Yes. But, I don't think what I want really matters this time. I think the real question is, do you?"

She seems pleased by that answer. And Michael feels a weight lift off his shoulders.

"I don't want you to feel neglected."

"I do not feel neglected. I know you're hurting. I know you're not really into sex these days. That's fine."

"It's just, with as bad as I'm feeling now, and it's not going to get better anytime soon, this might be the last chance for a long time."

"Not a problem. I want to have sex with you when you're feeling good and want to have sex with me. I don't want you to feel like you need to provide me with sex when you're not into it."

"It's been two weeks since we last had sex, and it might be four months before we do again."

"Fi, do you want to have sex?"

"No, not really."

"Then I can wait four and a half, or however many, months. I have before, and longer than that. You didn't notice me dating other women while we weren't together, did you?"

"That's true, you didn't."

He looks at her meaningfully. She smiles at him.

"What's the longest you've gone?"

"You mean, besides the first seventeen years?"

"Longest you've gone since your first time."

"Two years, twice."

"Twice?"

"I was in Afghanistan for two years, and while there are women there, the ones you don't have to pay are likely to get you and them killed, and the ones you do have to pay aren't likely to be in the business because they want to be. I was never so horny I wanted to die for it, and never wanted to feel like I had forced a girl."

"And the other two years?"

"After I left Ireland."

She nods.

"How about you?"

"Not that long. Of course, I've never been in a place where available men were few and far between."

He decides he doesn't want to know too much about how long not that long is. And he really doesn't want to know if she slept with half of Ireland after he left.

"You mentioned not wanting to die for it. But have you ever paid for it?"

He looks chagrined. "Just remember, I joined the Army at seventeen and was eighteen the first time I was stationed in Germany. Trips to Amsterdam, where prostitution, pot, and alcohol are legal, were fast and cheap. So, yes, I partied like a hormone-crazed eighteen-year-old-with-money-to-burn when I was a hormone-crazed-eighteen-year-old-with-money-to-burn, and some of those parties involved hookers, drugs, and bar fights."

She laughs at that. "Hard to imagine you as a hormone-crazed-eighteen-year-old."

"I was still me. Just a version of me that thought mostly with my dick."

"What I would have paid to see that."

"It really wasn't pretty. For example, back then no sex would have made me pout." Which he demonstrates for her, and then grins. "It would have never occurred to me that if we aren't going to be having sex, to suggest that either you keep me company while I have sex with myself, or if it's just the penetration aspect, that you lay back, relax, and let me do you." He kisses her shoulder as he says that, tongue flicking along the skin, reminding her of what he can do with it.

"I'll happily keep you company while you have sex with yourself, but right now I hurt from my knees to my neck, and nothing inbetween wants to be touched."

"Fair enough."

"I am curious, how do you envision me keeping you company working?"

He scoots out of his pajama bottoms and kicks off the covers. "Roll onto your side so you're facing me." She does so, and he relaxes onto his back, one hand on his cock, the other holding hers. "Let me talk to you, tell you what I will very happily do to you when you're feeling better again. Tell me what you'd like to do to me when you're feeling up to it."

"So, phone sex, in person."

"Yeah."

In the end it wasn't quite just Michael on his own. She couldn't not touch him as he got closer and closer. So her hand joined his as he shuddered and spurted. And by the time that had happened, she was feeling like maybe some very gentle oral sex might be in order as well, which he was more than happy to provide.


	36. Chapter 36

"Mike, I've got some bad news for ya, buddy."

Michael eyes Sam apprehensively. Sam had called an hour earlier, and asked to meet him, alone. "What, Sam?"

"Elsa noticed this in the paper yesterday." Sam hands Mike a piece of the newspaper.

Michael looks down and sees that there is indeed a problem, and understands why he didn't want to do this with Fi around. Sure, she hasn't been doing the traditional pregnant woman mood swing from hell routine, but she has been a bit easier to upset than normal.

"That's my house."

"Yeah, brother."

It's a notice in the paper for an auction. A foreclosed upon property is being sold tomorrow, and the house in question is the one Mike and Fi are currently living in.

"Uen doesn't really own that house. I had Barry do some digging for you, and well, no one's owned that house in three years. It's up for auction because the bank wants to get rid of it on the cheap."

"Great." No one in his right mind would call Michael Westen a coward, but that does not mean that he's got any desire to tell his extremely pregnant, likely to go into labor any minute now wife about how the house they live in is about to be sold out from under them, and how the bank that owns said house is likely to be extremely displeased about some of the modifications he's made to the place over the last five months.

Sam smiles at him. "Here's the good news. Barry got you a seat at the auction."

"Sam?"

"If you want to, you can buy it. You've got the funds, and Barry's got the corporation set up."

Which is how Westanne Holdings LLC., a subsidiary of RobinHobb Limited, which was part of the Finley Group, gained its first asset: a single family home just outside of Little Havana.

* * *

A/N: Yep. Just a short one today. So, this is probably a good time for the Author's update. There are three more chapters left. Two for the main story, and one epilogue-y thing where I happy the ever living snot out of Happily Ever After. ;) Happy Saturday everyone!


	37. Chapter 37

On Monday, Doctor Johnson said, "The baby is still in breech position. We might want to think about an eventual c-section. If she moves, things will be fine, but in my experience babies usually flip into head down position long before this, and the ones that don't usually have a reason for not doing it, like a short umbilical cord, or" and Doc Johnson looks at Fi meaningfully, "a very tight pelvis is making it hard to maneuver."

Which is why, two days later, as Michael stood in a hallway next to the surgical theater in the obstetrics ward at Miami Dade General, dressed in disposable surgical scrubs, he's not in any way surprised to be there.

But not being surprised is having very little effect on his nerves. He's been preparing for this for two days, trying to be calm about it. As Dr. Johnson said, it happens all the time, that one in three babies in the US is born by a c-section, and for Fi's age group the numbers are even higher, but right now, as he's standing there, on the other side of that door a stranger is shoving a needle into Fi's spine, and Michael is having a very hard time being calm about it.

He almost wishes he smoked, or could smoke, because he'd at least have something to do with his hands besides clench them.

The door swings open as another scrub bedecked person heads in. He can hear dull voices, a quick laugh, Fi's, and that helps to relax him a little, whatever is happening in there can't be that bad if she's laughing, and then she shrieks which blows relaxed all to hell and gone, and only the fact that him bursting in is likely to startle the guy with THE NEEDLE IN HER SPINE keeps him from kicking open the door and strangling whoever made her sound that way.

The longest minute of his life passes before he hears her voice again. She's not yelling, and then there's another laugh, which is probably good, followed by retching, which makes his hands clench again.

Ten more minutes pass before the door opens and one of the nurses lets him in.

She's lying on a surgical table. When she hears him come in, her head turns toward him.

"Hi."

"How are you feeling?"

"Really good, right now. Getting the epidural wasn't fun, but it was so worth is. Nothing hurts at all. I'd forgotten how great that is."

He stands next to her head and strokes her cheek, trying not to burst into scared questions about why there's an oxygen tube in her nose.

"She did just fine with the epidural," a nurse chimes in. "A contraction hit right while he was inserting the needle and she stayed perfectly still through it."

"Is that why you shrieked?"

Fi gives him an indignant look, or at least as close as a person in a hospital gown, with a paper bonnet over her hair and an oxygen tube in her nose can. "I did no such thing."

He can see them setting up a drape between him and the top half of Fi and where the surgery takes place. It's probably a good thing he won't be able to see them cut her open.

"We're going to get started. In a few minutes, you'll have a baby."

One of the nurses offers him a rolling stool, so he can sit next to her head. He does, one hand on hers, which is strapped to an extended arm on the table, and the other touching her forehead. Her eyes are closed, and he's focused on her eyelashes, trying not to hear what the doctors are saying to each other. He already has nightmares of Fi cut open and bloody, no reason to try and imagine what's happening on the other side of the drape.

After what was either a very slow few minutes or a very fast half hour (he's not sure which, though Elise's official time of birth would seem to indicate about seven minutes went by) a small cat meow sounding cry fills the room, and a nurse is asking if he'd like to cut the cord.

Fi's eyes are open now, so he kisses her and tells the nurse no. Elise won't remember this moment. But Fi might, so he'll stays with her, holding her hand until a woman in green scrubs hands him a very small, very warm bundle of tightly wrapped blankets, and both of them get to see their daughter's face for the first time, together.

She's tiny. He finds himself thinking that and feeling silly for it. Of course she's tiny. That's what newborn babies are. If they weren't tiny, that'd be a problem.

She's also pink, very warm, and quiet. Her eyes are open, the murky gray-blue of a newborn, and not really focused on anything, but moving around, looking at everything avidly.

Fi can't move her arms, so he holds Elise close, so she can nuzzle and kiss her. Fi does, whispering something, he's not entirely sure if they're words, and if they are words, if they're English or Irish Gaelic, but he figures that doesn't matter.

"Does she have hair?"

Michael peeks under the crocheted cap they put on Elise. "Yes. Lots of it. And it's black."

"Good." Fi giggles a little. "She's squinting at me; the same way you do when you run into something you find confusing."

"I'd imagine this whole thing is confusing to her."

Fi laughs at that, too. The morphine might be making her a little silly.

For a long minute, they just look at her.

"She's got your nose," Fi says.

Michael smiles. "I was just thinking how much she looks like you."

"Mr. Westen," the voice sounds almost hesitant to break into this moment.

Michael looks up and sees one of the nurses standing next to him.

"We're going to be moving Ms. Glenanne to the recovery room now. If you've got some people in the waiting area, now might be a good time to let them know the baby is here."

And for the first time in probably three hours, it occurs to Mike that Madeline and Katherine, and probably Sam, maybe Jesse, are in the waiting room.

"Oh. Yes." He starts to hand Elise to the nurse.

"You can take her with you. I'm sure your family wants to see her."

"Right." And it hits him. This is _his_ daughter. He'll be taking her home in a few days. He'll be there for her first steps, first words, first day of school, first date, and a flood of other images come crashing onto him.

It's a good thing he's sitting down, because he feels his knees go week and his hands start to shake.

Now the nurse looks like she wants to take Elise from him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Just—"

"Sit tight for a moment. Do you need me to take her?" Michael shakes his head no. "Okay. Don't stand up until you can do it without dropping her."

"Michael?" Fi's voice. He can hear the unspoken echo of the nurse's question.

He strokes Elise's face, crying. "She's real, Fi."

"Lean down here." Michael does, and Fi kisses him. "I know. She's real, and she's here, and she's perfect."

"Oh God. She's is." His breath is coming fast, and for once he's not feeling any need to try and calm himself down. He can see the nurses and Doctor Johnson all want to get moving. And someone probably needs or will need this room soon, but he sits on the stool and says, "Can we have another minute?"

Doctor Johnson says, "Sure. But we do need to get moving soon."

"I know. Just..."

"We understand. Take your minute."

Michael holds her, looking at this tiny pink person with dark blue eyes, his nose, and a baby version of Fiona's face, and he can't imagine how he could have possibly been this blessed or lucky. He's not a religious man, though he's always believed in God, and for the first moment in his life he understands the idea of reverence, because it's the only word he can think of to describe how this moment feels.

After a few seconds, he feels his control coming back. He kisses Fi one more time. "I'll see you in a few minutes." She nods, and he stands.

He holds Elise against his chest, and whispers against her head, "Time to meet your grandmas. And probably Uncle Sam and Uncle Jesse."

* * *

A/N: Awwww... Happy Wednesday everyone. Two more wrap up chapters after this one.


	38. Chapter 38

On the first day of the thirty-eighth week, Elise Westen came home, as babies often do, carried by her father.

Her mother got in the house, sat on the sofa, and promptly fell asleep. Between the pain meds and the fact that Elise seemed to be under the impression that meals should be served every two hours, Fi was beat.

So, it was three days after she was born, that Michael got his first moments really alone with his daughter.

Moments being the operative word because both his mother and Fi's showed up within minutes of each other, and him, and whisked Elise out of his arms, while tutting over Fi and making sure that she was properly comfy.

Then his mom shoo-ed him into his room, told him to get a nap, because he'd be on baby duty that night, and he'd need the sleep.

So he did.

Seven hours later, as he walked Elise around the house, through the blue-lit gloom of midnight, trying, praying, begging her to go to sleep, he was actually pretty glad he had gotten the nap.

And when she did fall asleep, all seven pounds of her curled between his collar bone and sternum, he very carefully lay down next to Fi, and got a quick nap as well, both of his ladies by his side.

* * *

A/N: Just a short one today. Wednesday wraps this up with the HEA (Happily Ever After) to end all HEAs.


	39. Chapter 39

Week 247

There were certain things Michael Westen expected about having an enormously cute little girl. Dresses, he expected dresses. Tea parties with Nana and Gram, sure, he was ready for that. Princess costumes for Halloween, of course (though Elise's costumes always involve swords and guns as well. She's way more Princess Leia than Cinderella. And considerably more her mother's girl than any Hollywood princess, ever.)

He wasn't expecting repeated bouts of flower girl duty.

But, when you've got a ridiculously cute little girl, with big blue-gray eyes and brown-black curls, and none of your other buddies do, you get to go to a lot of weddings and spend a lot of time going over how it's the little girl's job to walk straight up that aisle and drop the flowers on the runner.

Elise is an expert at it now.

The first time she did it, three days after she turned two, the instructions were pretty simple. Hold the flowers, walk straight up the aisle to Daddy, and drop the flowers while you walk.

After all, Daddy was right at the front of the church, standing next to Uncle Sam, the groom, so it wasn't like he'd be hard to find.

But there were a whole lot of people at that wedding. Between Sam's unending list of buddies and Elsa's numerous connections, both personal and business, there were over 400 people in attendance, so Elise got to the end of the aisle, saw everyone watching her, stopped dead, clutching rose petals in her hands, and burst into tears.

Fi got her calmed down, and held her hand, walking her up the aisle. But the flowers stayed in the little basket.

The second time was three months later, on an island known only by GPS coordinates.

Nana Katie was getting married, and she wanted all of her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren there for the affair. Getting the entire Glenanne Clan in one place was a challenge, but lucky for Katherine, Sam had some strings he could pull, and he and Fi knew some awfully good smugglers. And there was a guy with a very secluded island who owed Mike a favor.

And, though that wedding would have been an MI5 wet dream of anti-British operatives, no one found out about it until months after it had happened.

Not that Elise knew anything about that. She just knew that it was her job, along with her sixteen older cousins and two younger ones, to throw flowers at Nana Katie and Popa Jim when they walked back down the aisle.

And she was good at throwing things, the flowers, the basket the flowers were in, and her cousin Sarah's basket, too.

The third wedding was held shortly after her third birthday, and just about everyone there seemed surprised to be there, especially the groom.

But Evan's girlfriend wanted to be a wife before she was a mother, and his step-father just happened to know someone who possessed a little girl who had copious flower girl experience.

Evan looked awfully green in his dress whites that day (how much of that was jitters versus post-bachelor-party-hangover was known only to the groom), but his bride was lovely, and the wedding, flowers and all, went off without a hitch.

Mike, Fi, and Jesse proceeded to spend most of the reception teasing Sam about how he was on the verge of being a grandfather.

He responded with great dignity by sipping his mojito and flipping them off.

It was a fun night.

And the fourth wedding, well, come on, this one can't be a surprise, right?

After three years in Mumbai, Dani Pearce had had enough. She'd looked at faked prescriptions until her eyes had bled, and she was done with it, done with the agency, and done with stupid bloody politicking. She got into the CIA to make the world a better place, and she'd spent three years doing nothing even remotely like that.

She moved back to Miami and went in search of the people she knew were working on making the world a better place.

From there, she and Jesse more or less set the land speed record for first date to engaged to married at nine weeks.

As Jesse once said, "Women in our line of work are like ghosts. Sure everyone knows someone who's seen one, but they aren't exactly easy to find." As soon as he found a woman who got it and him, he didn't see any reason to wait, and neither did she.

For the fourth wedding, almost four-year-old Elise had the flower girl thing down pat. Stand at the end, walk in before the bride, scatter petals in an arc pattern, go to the far end of the aisle, and then sit with Mom. (Dad was once again on groomsman duty.)

And now, before the start of the fifth wedding, Michael's once again getting his daughter ready. This one is a little different. Usually, Elise walks up the aisle, drops her flowers and then goes and sits with whichever parent isn't standing up with the rest of the wedding party.

This time though, Mike's giving away the bride, and Fi is her matron of honor, and Nana Katie is the other bridesmaid, so Elise's instructions have been modified to go sit with Uncle Sam and Aunt Elsa.

For Mike, the idea of giving away the bride is a bit surreal, or at least doing it now is. He's hoping, God willing, he'll be able to do it in the future. (Though if Elise waits as long as her mom did to get married, he'll be 88 when he walks her down the aisle. The idea of which he finds both troubling and amusing.)

Two years ago, after an amazingly thorough background check, Maddie started dating Adam. And they kept dating. And really seemed to hit it off. So it wasn't exactly a surprise when he proposed and they decided to get hitched.

Which is why Mike's standing next to his mom, watching his mother-in-law, wife, and daughter walk down yet another white runner toward a pastor and a happy looking groom.

If you had told twenty-year-old Michael that he'd spend the second half of his life surrounded by women, he'd have grinned. And if you had told him the women in question would be his wife, daughter, mother, and mother-in-law, he would have laughed in your face. The idea of a wife and daughter wasn't out of the question, but he was purposely seven thousands miles away from his mother, and had no intention of getting any closer.

If you had told thirty-year-old Michael that he'd spend the second half of his life surrounded by his wife, daughter, mother, and mother-in-law, he would have smiled and wondered at how he managed to pull it off. He certainly had the girl picked out, but getting things in order to build a life with her was something that had been weighing heavily on his mind. Plus, he wouldn't have been able to think of any way to keep his cover intact and somehow get his mother to move to Ireland. Among other things, Michael McBride's mother was dead, so having her somehow show up, alive and American, would be an issue.

If you had told forty-year-old Michael that he'd spend the second half of his life surrounded by women, and that those women would be his wife, daughter, mother, and mother-in-law, he would have walked out of the room. The whole relationship thing, which he'd decided was something he couldn't make work, had gotten considerably more complicated because for the previous three weeks Fi had been back in his life. He might in fact be a bastard for leaving her once, but only a complete asshole breaks the same woman's heart twice. And his mom was calling him thirty times a day driving him completely bonkers. The idea was to avoid her, not spend more time with her. Meanwhile the idea of a daughter or a mother-in-law was so alien that he'd have been unable to wrap his mind around it.

Fifty-year-old Michael, on the other hand, has settled into the idea pretty well.

Elise has finished strewing flowers and has sat next to Sam and Elsa.

"Ready, Ma?"

She smiles at him. "Yes."

"Then let's go."

* * *

A/N: Wow! And there it is, all 50k+ words. I hope you thought the ride was worth it.

First off, thank you all for reading and reviewing. All of your little notes made my day!

So, what next?

Well, there's Grand Gestures and Day to Day Life, which will be picking back up when season seven starts.

There may be some quick one shots ala Elvis on the Jukebox. (I've got titles, C4, Thermite, and Knickers in a Twist, but so far the story to go with it is really rough, and Dido At The Club isn't coming together as well as I'd like.)

If you like NCIS and the Tim McGee character, I'm in the middle of a scarily large McGee luv fest, called Shards To A Whole.

And (warning blatant self-promotion ahead) I do write my own stories with my own characters, so if you felt like wandering over to Amazon and typing Keryl Raist in, you'd see what I can do when it's all up to me. Rumor has it, those stories are pretty good. ;)

Here's where I ask you all a favor, if you do like my writing, and I'm guessing that if you're still reading, you do, please help the world know I exist. The hardest thing for a writer to do is get her books in the hands of people who have never heard of her. So, please, link to my stories/blog on Facebook, or tweet about them, or just mention them to a buddy who might like them.

Thanks, Keryl

(PS. See you in the summer!)


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